


Entangled With The Watsons

by PlantsAreNeat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Parenthood, Pining, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-10-02 10:36:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10216133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlantsAreNeat/pseuds/PlantsAreNeat
Summary: The dust has settled after the events of Season 4. Sherlock and John have reached a healthy equilibrium in their friendship, John is raising Rosie with the help of his friends, and life has returned to as normal as it gets for them. Greg Lestrade has a soft spot for kids, and joins the ranks of John's on-call babysitters, but soon finds himself falling for both the charming baby and her handsome father.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just as surprised as the next person that the first thing to bubble out of my head after the madness that was season 4 and its aftermath in the fandom was fluffy, relationship-centric JohnStrade. I guess the obvious reason is well... Rupert Graves. I love his gruff, humble Lestrade, and thought he deserved some of the Watson charm. I'm a sucker for romance.
> 
> This piece seems to want to be a greater number of shorter chapters, but I tend toward wordy so it may not stay that way. 
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked - I'm American (as is my spelling), so comments and corrections gladly accepted, and likely obsessively answered. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson are creations of Arthur Conan Doyle; their updated counterparts belong to Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the BBC. I receive only writing practice (and hopefully kudos) for this effort.

“Greg, I really appreciate this,” John said, handing a pink-cheeked Rosie into his friend’s eager arms as they met at John’s front door. He passed over a packed diaper bag. The baby squawked indignantly, grabbing at her father’s jacket collar and screwing up her face for a proper strop. “Hey now, Rosie, Uncle Greg is here to keep you company until Nan can come over for the night,” he said cheerfully, tickling her under her chin before she could wail. “Which will be in,” he checked his watch and addressed Greg in his usual brisk tone “…about an hour and a half. Mrs. Hudson’s got a book group or some such thing, she said. We’d just wait for her, but Sherlock says the last train of the night goes at six, which gives us just enough time to get to the station if we hurry.”

Sherlock scowled from the hallway, impatience written in every line of him as he texted madly on his phone.

“Not a problem, John, I’m happy to watch this little rug rat of yours.” Greg contorted his face and tapped her snubbed nose to make Rosie giggle, with great success. “You’d best go on, if you’re catching a train! Call me if you need to,” Greg addressed Sherlock over John’s shoulder. “I’ve already set up a meeting for you both with Jane – I mean, Inspector Greely, so you can see the scene and she’s working to get you into the coroner’s so you can get a look at the body. I, uh, I promised her dinner and a movie to get you in, so don’t make arseholes of yourselves on her crime scene, yeah? She’s a friend.” He ducked his head a bit and flashed his boyish smile as John grinned and bumped shoulders with him.

Sherlock stopped pacing and scanned Greg’s form intently, eyes narrowed. “Yes, I can see you are interested in this Inspector Greely. Perhaps she’ll work out, though I doubt it. You doubt it too, or you would have offered a more intimate date option. Dinner and a movie takes the pressure off for extended interaction; you’re not sure you and she have enough in common to sustain a lengthy conversation. No, Lestrade, I think we both know she’s not ‘the one.’”

Careful to keep his hand behind Rosie’s head, Greg flipped the bird at the lanky detective. “I’ll decide that for myself, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Not likely I’m going to take dating advice from a man who says – what was that bollocks you were talking the other month? ‘Romantic entanglements are anathema to the logical mind,’ or some rubbish, yeah? Well, until you’re happily  _ entangled _ , Sherlock, I’ll thank you to shut it.”

John made a sound from behind his hand that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. Greg eyed his friend warily, wondering if he was about to take the piss. But John’s mirth was directed at Sherlock; he had the air of a man who had won a point in an argument. When he turned back to Greg, his eyes were sparkling a deep blue, wreathed by smile lines in his expressive face. “That’s him told, Greg. Good luck on your date. At least one of us should have a social life, after all.” He leaned in to smack a loud kiss on Rosie’s cheek, making her laugh and wriggle in Greg’s arms. Greg huffed a chuckle, and inhaled a breath of John: rosemary shampoo, faint hint of sandalwood cologne and something sticky sweet. Rosie smelled of that last one, too, and Greg noticed a blob of jam smeared on her romper. They must have just had a snack. “Good bye, little love, I’ll see you in the morning. Be good for Uncle Greg and your Nan.” John stroked her blond head a bit wistfully as he straightened, then gave Greg’s shoulder a squeeze to go with his smart nod.

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes at Greg, but he, too, leaned in to drop a kiss on Rosie’s soft cheek. “À bientôt, mon petit chou-chou,” he murmured in his rich baritone. Rosie regarded him delightedly, as if he had done a magic trick. Greg caught a glimpse of a smile as Sherlock stepped out the door and headed for the car on the curb. He and Rosie watched her father and his best friend drive off, then turned back to the house.

“Well, Rosie m’girl, what shall we do now? Let’s see if your elephant is anywhere about, yeah?” Greg grinned at Rosie’s enthusiastic cooing when the stuffed toy was mentioned, and he put her on the floor next to the floppy blue thing. She immediately grabbed it and put an ear in her mouth, then picked up a bright plastic key ring from the floor next to her and began shaking it. 

As he watched the baby explore, Greg kept catching brief whiffs of sandalwood and rosemary; was there an air freshener in here? It was soothing; he decided he liked it.

~~oOo~~

A strong hand shook him gently out of a restful sleep. “Whassat?” he slurred, opening his eyes blearily and looking around the unfamiliar room as he sat up. John’s amused face swam into view in the dim light of the lamp by the sofa. The monitor on the coffee table issued the little sighs and smacks of a sleeping baby, and Greg regarded it with a bit of pride.  

“You’re still here - I thought Mrs. Hudson was going to take over for you?” John said with a tired sigh, seating himself on the sofa where Greg’s socked feet had just been.

“I called her off. She was just as happy to have a night out with the book club, she said, and I have the day off tomorrow, so I figured I could have a lie in if you went late.” Greg’s voice was gravelly with sleep and he combed his fingers up through his hair, tousling it more than his nap had done. “Rosie ate her sweet potatoes and avocado like a trooper, drank a bit of formula and went down as easy as you please. Clean nappy just before bed, so she should be set until morning,” he reported. 

John huffed a chuckle and regarded Greg bemusedly. 

“What?” Greg demanded, warily eyeing John’s expression. 

“You,” John said. “I didn't expect you to be such a good babysitter.” He raised his eyebrows and swatted Greg on the near arm. “You’ve been holding out on me.” 

“Yeah, well. My sister’s got four of ‘em - a girl and three boys, bless ‘er. I’ve probably changed more diapers over the years than most divorced DI’s you’ll meet, that’s for sure. But I love kids,” he said wistfully. “My ex didn't want them; it was one of the things we fought about.” He blew out a sigh and rubbed his face with a callused hand. “Not so likely I'll get the chance to have my own, now. So I hang around with my niece and nephews when I can, and do a bit of babysitting for friends now and again.” 

“You might regret telling me that; I've got a roster, you know,” John slanted a lopsided smile over at Greg, then rubbed his own eyes. “My god, it’s bloody late, and I'm knackered. I made Sherlock ride in the car Mycroft sent to get us home before tomorrow, and listening to him whinge without throttling him takes it out of a bloke, y’know?” He heaved himself to his feet. “Usually on nights like this, I put Mrs. Hudson in the guest room; you’re welcome to kip there if you like.” John stretched up as tall as his modest height allowed; joints cracking, arms over his head and shirt coming untucked from his jeans to flash a bit of the sun-starved skin on his belly along with a hint of dark blond hair below his navel. 

Greg blinked, then shook himself and stood, slipping his feet back into his shoes. They were cold inside. “Nah, it’s only half two, I’ll head back to mine,” he said. He felt strangely awkward about the idea of spending the night in John’s house, which was ridiculous. John was a mate, and he'd be in the guest room, but even so; better that he head home and sleep in his own bed. “Did you get what you needed from Jane?” 

“Oh, yeah, we did. Sherlock solved it in his usual fashion, but it was a suicide, not a murder. Our client’s off the hook, but he’s pretty shattered. Lost a friend and had to be cleared of his murder, all in two days.” John said sadly. Greg gripped John’s bicep in silent understanding; he remembered how hard John had taken Sherlock’s ‘suicide.’ John nodded his appreciation. “Oh, and I think you’ll have your work cut out for you with Inspector Greely - she let it slip she ‘doesn’t eat animals or animal products’ and doesn't like films with ‘too much action.’ Seems she gets enough of that at work, I think she said.” John’s air quotes matched his cheeky expression and he nudged Greg with his elbow, his teasing smile lighting up his tired face. “She’s a pretty smart lady.”

Greg knew how this kind of blokey banter went, and flashed a sly grin of his own. “Are you implying I'm only looking for a pretty face? Or that she’s too smart for me? ‘Cause I'll remind you who the smartest person we know is - the smartest two people, for that matter - and I wouldn't shag either of them for a million pounds.” 

John dissolved into breathy giggles and dropped his face into his hands. “It is too goddamn late at night to be having this conversation without booze.” 

Greg chuckled, too, unexpectedly delighted by John’s laughter. “Another time, then - with booze, and a sober backup for Rosie.” John burst into a fresh spate of exhausted snickers. Greg turned him toward the stairs. “All right you, you're obviously done in. Get some sleep. I can let myself out.” 

John came with him to the door anyway, so he could throw the deadbolt. “G’night, Greg, and thanks again.”

“‘Night, John. See you soon.” Greg ambled over to his car, pleased with the evening; John’s husky laughter lingering in his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Just as he had threatened, John added Greg to his list of on-call babysitters. It was only two weeks later that Greg was tapped to take a Saturday morning with Rosie while John did the shopping and got his hair cut; something Rosie wouldn’t sit still for. She was an active little thing, so despite her skeptical looks, Greg got her packed up and wandered up the road to the tiny park at the end of the street. It was warmish, so he put her down in the grass and kept an eagle eye out to make sure she didn’t swallow anything unhealthy. To his mind, eating a little grass or dirt was an important part of being a growing child, but a stone or wood chip was another story. She repeatedly picked up chips to inspect them closely, and once deflected from putting them in her mouth, she’d throw them - making happy vowel sounds as they flung away, then turning a toothless grin to Greg for his approval. He was utterly charmed with how her bright blue-eyed gaze followed the object through the air, and her crowing when it landed, usually less than a meter away, was nothing short of adorable.

An hour later they were fast friends. Rosie could not get enough of being pushed gently on the safety swing, with its bucket-shaped seat and high sides, and all Greg had to do was give her a push every now and then to aid her shrieking and giggling. He kept her going by pantomiming tickling her toes when they swung toward him, or grabbing the seat to hold it up high for a moment before letting it swing back and forth again. Greg couldn’t remember the last time he’d had as much fun with such a little kid; his niece and nephews were older now, and days spent with them had more footie in the park and trips to the cinema than swings and tickling. 

He was just pondering his luck at being added to John’s list, when the man himself stepped up beside Greg to catch Rosie and give her a resounding smooch on a pink cheek before letting her swing away again.

“How’s she been for you, then?” he asked, giving Greg a sidelong look. “Thanks for the text, by the way - if you’d left a note I’d have missed dropping in like this.”

Greg tickled imaginary toes while Rosie squealed from the bucket seat, then gave her a push to keep her moving. “She’s been brilliant, really. Happy as you please, and only managed to eat three rocks before I put her in this thing,” he said nonchalantly, “not to worry, they were small and should go right through ‘er.” 

Greg felt John stiffen next to him, and looked over to see his friend regarding him with an expression of mixed horror and wrath. John took a deep breath as if to start shouting, then caught the smirk Greg was doing his best to hide and blinked, blowing it out again. Greg burst out laughing. “Ah, God, your face!” He said between guffaws, “you really... thought I’d let... baby eat rocks,” he let out a few more belly laughs, then gradually regained his composure while John reined in his protective instincts and eventually huffed a brief laugh of his own. 

“Tosser,” he mock-growled, and punched Greg lightly on the bicep. 

“Ow,” Greg whined piteously, playing up the injury, “that really hurt! Now I’ll need a doctor!” His grin was wide and lively.

Rosie started to fuss in the swing, reaching for Greg with big eyes and open hands. “Oh, now, now, m’girl,” he said soothingly, “I’m just playing. Not hurt, see?” He lifted her from the swing for a hug, then passed her over to her father for more cuddling. Rosie didn’t protest, an ear turned to John’s soothing murmurs but still eyeing Greg with concern, as if she expected him to burst into tears at any moment. “Really, I’m fine. Your dad isn’t mad at me, and I’m not mad at him, see?” Without thought, he put his arm around John’s shoulders and pulled both him and Rosie into a half-hug. John went easily, still focused on his daughter, and Greg absently noticed the firmness of the compact body under his arm. John’s warmth bled through their light jackets, and Greg could smell that combination of rosemary and sandalwood that pervaded John’s flat. He turned his head slightly to get another breath of it.

Rosie rewarded them with a small smile and John relaxed into the circle of Greg’s arm with an answering pleased smirk. Greg was just about to lean in to give them both a real squeeze, when he realized how familiarly he was touching John, and how natural that action had been on his part; he hardly noticed what he was doing until there they were. He cleared his throat and released John hastily. After all, two blokes who were just mates didn’t go round hugging each other in public parks, even if there was a baby in between. He took a step back.

“How about it, Rosie, do you want to go back in the swing?” He asked to cover his confusion. Rosie did not seem inclined to leave her father’s arms, now that she was clasped there, and tucked her little face into John’s neck. 

John shot Greg a wry look and said, “have you got her things? Looks like we’re done here for the day. She’s due for a nap about now anyway.”

They collected the bag Greg had brought, along with the sacks of shopping John had put on the ground, and ambled their way back to John’s flat. Rosie was tired from the outing and drowsed on John’s shoulder as they walked and talked about nothing of importance; the weather (lovely), the football (abysmal, and what were those bloody refs thinking?), and Sherlock’s latest case (nothing much on, but solved fifteen by email yesterday; almost a record). When they arrived, Greg took Rosie while John unlocked the door and got them all inside. Rosie was almost asleep, and dropped her cheek into Greg’s neck just like she had with her father, rolling her head to move his collar off her face. Greg found himself filled with a tenderness and contentment he hadn’t known in much too long, and he would bet money some sort of goofy look was showing on his face as he rubbed her back with a broad hand.

John turned back around to take Rosie, but stopped to smile instead. “I’ll put the groceries up; why don’t you go sit in the rocking chair in her room? She’ll be asleep soon enough with a little quiet.” 

Greg just nodded and headed down the hall. John was correct - Rosie did doze off almost right away, but Greg couldn’t bring himself to get up from the rocking chair to put her down in her cot. The warm weight of her on his chest, her tiny puffing breaths against his neck, and the quiet creak of the rocking chair were doing more to relax him than any number of pints with the lads or yoga classes with his ex-wife had ever done. It felt like a year’s worth of tension was sliding out of the muscles in his shoulders. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, breathing out a long, blissful sigh. 

A snort from over his shoulder caused him to look to where John leaned against the doorway. “You look more relaxed than she does,” John said quietly, a pleased expression on his face. “I came to ask if you wanted some lunch, but you’re welcome to stay there for a bit if you’d rather.” 

Greg levered himself up from the chair, careful not to disturb his small passenger. “Lunch sounds great,” he said, and expertly put the child down in her crib, checking the monitor on the nightstand to make sure it was on. “What are we having?” 

“Just sandwiches, I thought,” John replied. “I’ve got some tomatoes and cheese, if that will do?” 

“Toast the sandwich in a pan and you’ve got a deal,” Greg said, rubbing his hands together. “And I’ll do anything you like for some crisps, if you’ve got ‘em.” And then he checked himself; he must have been more relaxed than he thought - that sounded almost flirty! He always had been more sassy when he was feeling good.

John didn’t seem to notice, but lead the way into the kitchen to pull out sandwich fixings and a pan for the cooktop. Soon lunch was underway and Greg was munching a handful of crisps with a bottle of Old Peculier on the table in front of him while he waited for his sandwich to toast. Really, he was feeling brilliant; he couldn’t seem to keep a bright grin from spreading across his face. His good humor was catching; soon John was smiling too, and they clinked their bottles together as they sat at the table with their sandwiches. 

They ate in companionable silence, until John cleared his throat. “So, how did it go with Inspector Greely? Have you had your date yet?” His sly smile and waggling eyebrows were devilish as he leaned his chin on his propped hands, all innocent inquiry.

Greg coughed and said “well... it was fine. Nice, I mean. Jane is... nice. We had a nice time.”

John burst out laughing. “That bad, eh? Did you run out of things to talk about?” 

Greg sheepishly ducked his head. “Sorta. She didn’t want to talk police work, which is what we really have in common, y’know? So, we talked vegetables, and the weather, and more bleedin’ vegetables and why milk is terrible. By the time we were going to the film it was pretty clear to the both of us that we wouldn’t be going out again.” He chuckled with a self-deprecating twist of his lips. “The curry was great at that vegan restaurant, though, and Jane was impressed I knew about it. Thanks for the recommendation.”

“You’re welcome. Mrs. Hudson actually took me there a while back, when she was on a health kick.”           

“Ha, I should’a known. That woman is a national treasure.” Greg leaned back in his chair and placed his empty ale bottle next to his plate. “I’m still hoping she’ll give me a ride in the Aston Martin one day.” There was a reverent pause to appreciate such a fine machine, accompanied by much solemn nodding.

“Did I ever tell you about the time she tore a strip off Mycroft?” John asked, Greg pursed his lips and shook his head; John barked a laugh, an eager storyteller’s glint in his eye. “Well, he had his spooks tossing Baker Street to figure out what Sherlock was up to during that Culverton Smith business, and we came across a DVD Mary had... er, yeah, she had made it for Sherlock to see... if she were ever...” he cleared his throat noisily, “er, killed.” John took a slow breath and let it out, rubbing a hand across his face. Greg clasped the forearm still resting on the table, giving it a supportive press of his fingers. After moment John continued, regaining his enthusiasm for the tale. “Mrs. Hudson told the spooks to get out so I could watch it alone. Mycroft intended to stay of course, but she told him off; called him ‘you reptile’ like he was something she was scraping off the bottom of her shoe. It was brilliant - Mycroft looked even more constipated than usual, if that’s possible, but he left without another word.” Greg snickered while John snorted in appreciation, nodding. “God bless Mrs. Hudson.” John shifted in his chair, though leaving his arm on the table where Greg grasped it. “She’s been wonderful, you know, helping out with Rosie. I don’t know what I’d have done without her, or Molly or all of you who’ve pitched in. Even Sherlock has been amazing.” He dropped his eyes and scratched at the label on his bottle, grappling with unexpected sentiment. 

“Ah, never mind it, we’re glad to help. Whassat they say? Takes a village, don’t it? Well, we’re a bloody strange village, but that’s what friends are for. You’d do the same if we needed you.” In the silence that followed, Greg contemplated the man across from him. John was one of the most loyal, honorable men he had ever met and he cared deeply for his friends; but John didn’t necessarily believe people felt the same about him. Oh, sure, he had his demons; he had problems with anger, and there’s the PTSD and he was shit at talking about his emotions, but John had people who loved him dearly and would help him any way they could. Just look at Greg, after all: here he was, spending his rare day off babysitting so his friend could have an hour to himself. It was little enough to do for a man he admired so much, who judged himself much too harshly, who had so much on his plate. Who had a lopsided, boyish grin, and a snarky sense of humor, and a filthy mouth when he was tired, and whose blue eyes were fathomless at times and flint hard at others. Who hid his strength under sheep’s clothing. Who had gone through more pain and strife in the few years Greg had known him than most people do in a lifetime. Who could stand up to Sherlock bleedin’ Holmes in a strop and who would nut Greg’s superior officer to protect his best friend; Lord knows that lanky git needed someone to watch out for him. John was short but he filled up a room just by walking in. His forearm felt warm and well-muscled under Greg’s hand, and was he planning to let that arm go, anytime soon? Greg’s brows drew down for a moment and he leaned back, releasing his grip. He stood up to take his plate to the sink, wondering where all those gushing thoughts had come from. He started when a hand clapped him on the shoulder, squeezing it. 

“Thanks, Greg.” John’s expressive face was close, and his eyes were wide and serious. Greg couldn’t look away, captured by the earnest sentiment he saw in them. He nodded and pulled his mouth into a half smile. 

Greg’s mobile went off, shattering the moment. He looked at it hurriedly. “Bollocks. There’s the rest of my day done for; there’s been a murder. I gotta go.” He felt rather disappointed that he wouldn’t get to stay; must be wishing to see more of Rosie when she woke up, he figured. 

“Call if you need us,” John said, “Sherlock could use a case to keep him occupied.” 

Greg waved a “will do” over his shoulder as he headed for his car in the drive, his mind busy mapping out the first steps to tackle the case, framed against an image of deep blue eyes. 


	3. Chapter 3

It was another week before a case came up that needed Sherlock’s and John’s expertise, though it was the fourth case in a row, and the fifth day of short sleep and long hours for Greg. He waited for the duo in the alley mouth next to the crime scene tape blocking off the bodies of the two unlucky bastards who had been killed. It was definitely up Sherlock’s street - the victims had been stripped nude and then body-painted with clothing so realistic that the uniform first on the scene didn’t register their unclad state to begin with. His fingers twiddled aimlessly: he wanted a cigarette badly, and had run out of patches hours ago with no hope of getting a break to stop at the chemist until tomorrow at the earliest. 

A cab pulled up and Sherlock unfolded from it as the door swung open, took one top-to-toe look at the DI, then continued on under the tape. As usual, John hung back to pay the fare and then joined Greg. “What have we got, then?” he said. 

“Got a bleedin’ murder, don’t we?” Greg snapped. “Your partner went on ahead without a word, like always, the bloody git.”

John regarded him levelly for a moment, then said, “anything you need me to know before I go on in?” 

Greg merely growled, fingers twitching by his sides. He glowered as John walked over to Sherlock and said something to him, taking him by the arm and pulling him back from where he was about to crouch over the bodies, magnifier in hand. Sherlock’s posture was indignant and his expression cutting as he stared into John’s face and spoke intensely, the rumble of his baritone indistinct. John’s reply was inaudible but his hand as it gripped Sherlock’s arm was firm; his spine straightened further as he spoke, emphatic demand in his posture. With a loud groan, Sherlock threw up his hands, then scrabbled in his coat and shoved some crackling papers at his partner’s chest. “But that’s ALL,” he said loudly, “am I allowed to get to work now, doctor?” His snide tone carried easily to Greg, but John just nodded mildly, smoothing the wrinkles on what Sherlock had given him as his mercurial friend spun back to begin a scrutiny of the corpses on the ground. John turned precisely, on his toes, and came back toward Greg, not exactly marching but something formidable in his gait. His eyes bored into Greg’s weary face and Greg was taken aback at the force of his gaze.

“Here,” John said, putting the papers into Greg’s unresisting hand. “You clearly need these more than Sherlock does right now.”

Greg looked down, to see two nicotine patches in their wrappers. It was a measure of his need and his tiredness that the sight of them made his throat tighten up a bit, even as his jaw dropped. He swallowed and then cleared his throat. “Oh, feckin’ hell, John! You’re a lifesaver, you are. I could kiss you for this,” he said fervently as he tore the paper off one of the patches, pocketing the other and stripping off his coat so he could roll up his sleeve and slap the patch on his forearm. Just seeing it there made him feel more cheerful, though he knew the patch could not be working much yet. He picked up his coat and put it back on, then looked over at his savior. “Really, mate, I owe you one, and so does everyone here - I’m a right bastard when I’m gagging for a smoke.” He leaned back against the brick of the building behind him and knocked the back of his skull gently against it a few times, then left it there and shut his eyes. “Christ, but I’m tired.” Greg’s brown eyes opened again, and he looked over at John. Greg couldn’t help but think John looked... good; square jaw and honeyed skin tone stark against the brick in the mid-morning overcast, blue eyes sharp as chips of glass as he cocked an eyebrow at Greg’s statement. “Got any magically appearing coffee about you? Or a night’s sleep in your pocket, doctor? I’m getting too bloody old for this shit.” Greg grinned, his teeth white against his tan complexion. John leaned back on the brick next to him, a wry twist to his lips as he rotated a shoulder to loosen it. Greg wondered if he’d been working out; it was usually Sherlock's shirts that were too tight, but today John’s jumper accentuated a well-proportioned chest. Hang on, what was he playing at, staring at John’s chest?

“You and me both,” John agreed. “Rosie’s been up with a fever the last two nights, so we’re both a touch sleep deprived, too. She’s better now,” he hastened to add, seeing Greg’s frown, “just one of those things kids catch. Sherlock sat up with her last night while I slept, so I’m all right, but he’s on one of his ‘it’s all transport, sleep is for the weak’ jags. I expect he’s got about 36 hours in him, and then he’ll pass out where he stands.” John snickered a little. “So, keep your camera about.”    

“Will do,” Greg said. “After all, it’s not every day -”

“John!” Sherlock’s voice was urgent. “John! I need you! Now!”

John was off the wall in an instant and striding over to where Sherlock was pointing at the second body. Quickly pulling on gloves from his pocket, he knelt down next to the supine form, and put steady fingers to the side of its neck. “Bloody buggering fuck!” He exclaimed after a moment, “I’ve got a pulse! Greg! Get an ambulance here, right now!”

The next minutes were a blur of motion and reactions; Greg yelling into his phone to get the closest ambulance on the way; Sherlock remarking snarkily “didn’t your people even check for signs of life before calling this a murder?” The paramedics arriving, swarming the alley where John was monitoring life signs and examining the unconscious man for wounds and drug effects. Greg watched John in his element, issuing crisp directions and debriefing the medics as to what had been done and his observations of the patient. Through Greg’s lens of exhaustion and adrenaline, John filled the alley with his commanding presence and obvious competence. It was bloody impressive, actually. John’s forceful confidence had even the jaded ambulance crew nodding and stepping smartly to get their patient stabilized and on the way to hospital. When they had sped off, siren wailing, John approached the wall where Greg was once again leaning with a cup of something claiming to be coffee clutched in his hand. John’s expression was hard, the blue of his eyes stormy. 

“Bit of a cock up, that,” he said harshly. “That man could have died there in the alley while we collected fucking soil samples from his sodding shoes!” 

Greg’s tired mind tried to process what his friend was saying. “He wasn’t wearing shoes,” he said dully, leaning over to put the cup on the pavement.

“That’s not the bloody point, Greg!” Indignation came off John’s stocky form in angry waves. He looked like he wanted to punch someone; Greg roused himself from the fugue of fatigue enough to be coherent before he had to handle an incident.

“John, you’re right. I don't know what to say,” Greg sighed. “I talked to the responding officer while you dealt with the ambulance. Says he checked the first body, who is most definitely dead,” John nodded grimly, shooting a glance over to where Sherlock was still looking closely at the painted skin of the first corpse. “And then he noticed the body paint on them both, said he got distracted and didn’t check the other bloke.” Greg pinched the bridge of his nose between blunt fingers. “He’ll have a report on his record, and the uniforms will get a retraining on crime scene procedure with an emphasis on life saving techniques. It’s not perfect, I know.” he pushed himself back to standing from his place on the wall. If John was going to punch someone, it might as well be him; it was ultimately his responsibility that procedure got followed, anyway. “Sometimes we make mistakes. I’m just... just so bloody glad you were here to help that poor sod so he’s got a chance after all.” He hung his head and waited for John’s reaction.

And waited some more, enough that he raised his eyes to his friend’s face quizzically. John was staring at him, still angry, but understanding lurked in the lines of his face, too. Greg heaved a sigh of relief. John’s expression changed to one of pointed scrutiny; he looked the DI over from head to toe just as Sherlock had done earlier, but this time Greg felt unaccountably warm where that keen gaze traveled. God, he must be tired; was he blushing?

“Can someone take over for you here?” John asked abruptly. 

“I’m the officer in charge, John, I can’t leave.” Greg squinted at John blearily, wondering what he had done with his coffee; “I’m fine, ‘specially now that I’ve got a patch, and there was coffee, wasn’t there?” He craned his head around, looking for his cup. 

“And how many cases have you been officer in charge this week, Greg?” John’s voice was crisp and short; he was standing straight, with hands clasped behind his back. Greg was suddenly reminded that John had been a Captain in the RAMC; he wondered if he were about to be dressed down in front of his whole team. 

“Just four,” Greg began, but John cut him off.

“Just four. The last time I saw you was seven days ago; how much sleep have you had since then?” John’s lips were compressing into a thin line as he issued his sharp questions; most definitely he was not pleased with Greg’s answers. 

“What? I dunno - I’ve been working some late nights, and some early mornings, but I get my head down every night for a bit... an hour or three at least,” Greg felt unexpectedly sheepish about this answer, especially as John’s brows drew down and his face fell into a scowl. 

Muttering something about ‘idiot detectives’ and ‘think they’re invincible’ and ‘not a lick of bleedin’ sense,’ John grabbed his shoulders to prop him back up against the wall, then left him to talk to Donovan, who had been consulting with the uniforms and shepherding nosy bystanders. After that he went to Sherlock, who was still with the remaining body. Greg watched John throw his weight around, a feeling of warm satisfaction in his chest. John was a force of nature when he wanted to be, and in the fog of jittery exhaustion where Greg found himself, it was bloody magnificent to watch. He snickered somewhat giddily when John made a particularly forceful comment accompanied by a very unprofessional gesture at Sherlock, and stomped his way back over to Greg.

“Come on, then,” John said, pulling the DI to his feet and dragging an arm over his own strong shoulder, “we’re taking you home to get some rest.”

“What? Wait, I have to -” Greg protested, when a cab pulled up as if by magic and Sherlock, seeming to have appeared just as instantly, raised a sardonic eyebrow as he opened the door for them.

“Best do as John says, Lestrade. He’s the doctor, after all; coddling people is his trade.” John manhandled Greg into the back seat, then got in next to him and gave Greg’s address to the cabbie. Greg was just wondering how John knew where he lived when he heard Sherlock’s rumbled “better you than me,” as the door slammed shut. If looks could kill, the one John threw back at his friend was something Greg would have had to arrest him for.

“Wanker,” John muttered under his breath, his tone dark and still angry, “see him complaining when it’s him about to keel over and injure himself? Nope, too busy telling you how mind over matter will prove you wrong, right up until he passes out.” John subsided with a huge blown out breath and rubbed both his hands over his face. “Well,” he continued at a more regular volume, “Sherlock being an arsehole is nothing new to you, so we’ll just drop it, yeah?”

Greg lolled against the seat, too weary to hold his head up any longer. “S’fine, John. I don’t mind it if you coddle me. Be a nice change.” The cab took a corner rather sharply, and Greg slumped over toward John, his head rolling onto a sturdy shoulder, where that soothing, spicy scent teased his nose. He breathed out in sudden contentment, and heard John huff out a chuckle. A strong arm came up behind Greg and curled around him, keeping him steady for the rest of the ride. 

~~oOo~~

The next morning, Greg awoke feeling fantastic. He had slept like a rock, without the caffeine-and-crime-scene induced insomnia that usually interfered with his rest. He was a little embarrassed that John had had to take him home and put him to bed like a child, but John had been brisk and professional, getting him into the flat and into bed with a minimum of fuss or lost dignity. In fact, Greg was wearing pajama bottoms and a worn Pixies T Shirt, just like he did every night. He didn’t remember John helping him change, but it must have happened; Greg was out of it enough that he would have slept in his clothes without help. Hell, he’d have slept in his coat and shoes, in a heap on his living room floor, as tired as he’d let himself get. 

Greg rolled out of bed with a resolution to take better care of himself. Starting with a shower, he decided, and headed for the bathroom. He put the water as hot as it would go, letting the room steam up while he stripped off; blushing a little as he realized he had no pants on under the pajamas; he hoped John hadn’t gotten too much of an eyeful getting him to bed. He made a face at himself in the mirror; still pretty fit, though showing his age more than he’d like. His time in the gym and weekend footie games with the nibblets was keeping the pudge from his desk job at bay, but his chest hair was going grey, for fuck’s sake! He stroked his fingers through the scruffy covering of salt and pepper over his pectorals, ghosting over his nipples and feeling a shiver as they tightened. Fuck it all, a good wank was just what he needed to start the day. 

He stepped into the hot shower and soaped himself liberally, enjoying the slippery feel of his hands on his skin. His morning wood had subsided, but his prick thickened quickly when he gave it a few sudsy pulls, then went back to teasing his nipples. The hot water cascaded over his shoulders and down his back, tickling his buttocks and down the back of this thighs. He rinsed one hand and used it to steady himself against the tile, then shut his eyes. Usually when he did this, he focused on the sensations and the rising tension in his body, and that was true today. But a thread of thought was running in the back of his mind, where he barely noticed it at first. John had helped him into his pajamas; had taken off his shirt and vest and trousers and pants to do so. He couldn’t help but visualise it; John undressing him for bed. Without his conscious choice, the hand stroking over his chest somehow became John’s, his eyes dark pools in the dim bedroom light of Greg’s imagination; his posture straight, demanding and forceful. Greg’s hands were stroking and caressing over his belly, then down to cup his sac and fist his cock, slowly at first, then with a more vigorous tempo. But in his mind - John was the one touching him, John was whispering utterly delicious filth in his ear and biting down on his neck, John was the one pulling his prick so expertly, John was the one tugging at his scrotum to draw it out, John was the one driving him to... 

His mouth dropped open on a heartfelt groan as his orgasm washed over him. His knees felt weak but didn’t buckle, and he braced himself with a folded arm against the shower wall as he caught his breath. Then he dropped his heated forehead to the cool tile beside his forearm, and let out a long whining sigh. Bloody, bloody hell. He cursed himself for every kind of idiot.

He’d gone and gotten a crush on John Watson, hadn’t he? Bollocks.


	4. Chapter 4

The next weeks were a wonderful bit of hell. John called on him regularly to look after Rosie of an evening or an afternoon, and it seemed there was at least one case per week that needed the services of a Consulting Detective and his Blogger. John was a joy to watch with Rosie, patient and careful and tender, and yet he seemed to take a devilish delight in how naturally babysitting came to his friend the blokey DI. He took the piss mercilessly, calling Greg ‘a soppy ol’ thing’ in front of his team or asking him random questions at crime scenes about diaper rash or sleep patterns in babies, then dissolving into snickers when Greg shot him the stink eye. Greg got a bit of his own back by answering John’s teasing questions seriously, earnestly and in exhaustive detail, whether they were stood over a body or shuffling paperwork back at the Yard. And yeah, if at times he spoke while preoccupied with what John’s lips might feel like against his own while he giggled like that, no one had to know that but Greg, right?

Well, Greg and Sherlock, perhaps; nothing got past that prat for long. That was a conversation he was not looking forward to in the slightest.

Greg kept himself pretty tightly under control for the first few weeks after his shower epiphany and resulting minor crisis. Not a crisis over John being a man; Greg had been flexible in that respect in his younger days, and then he was married, not dead. Many a well-built fellow or lovely lady caught his eye over the years; he just didn’t take it further than a daydream or two - he didn’t have it in him to cheat. No, he was in a tizzy over it being John. Recently widowed, single father, friend and apparent platonic-life-partner to Sherlock Holmes;  _ John _ . The very idea was ridiculous. They were friends, for starters, and he didn’t want to fuck that up. John wasn’t ready to date again, and even if he were, there was no indication that he would date a man. Another mark in the ‘don’t fuck it up’ column. John made life with Sherlock  _ so _ much more bearable, it was like night and day to pre-John cases; a very large mark in the column all by itself. So, ridiculous. Yeah. A terrible idea. Right. Right?

Tell that to his subconscious. 

Greg almost turned right back around after pushing through the doors to Bart’s morgue to find John with his lips pressed gently to Molly Hooper’s forehead while she clung to him. Jealousy flared, hot and greedy in his stomach, and he felt his fingernails press into his palms as he tightly clenched his fists. ‘ _ You’ve no right, _ ’ he told himself sternly. ‘ _ John could have a hundred lovers and it’s nothing to do with you.’ _ He steeled himself and walked further into the room, clearing his throat to alert the two to his presence. A mortified Molly jumped away from John with a flustered yip; he let her go with no reluctance or embarrassment Greg could see. The green monster in his belly calmed just the slightest bit, though it didn’t leave. He did his best to make friendly small talk while Molly briskly collected herself, then her things, and then took herself out of the morgue altogether. 

“Was it something I did?” Greg mused as the doors closed behind her hurrying form.

“‘Course not,” John replied with a sigh. “She’s still feeling pretty raw about what Sherlock had to put her through when his sister...” he shook his head. “That’s still the oddest thing to say, even now that we’re months past it - when we were on that island, his sister made Sherlock call her and get her to say she loved him. We thought Eurus had booby-trapped the flat with explosives, yeah? And the only way to keep her from setting them off was to make Molly say the words. It was... hard for her. She said it was true, you see, so she couldn’t say it out loud.” 

Greg’s head whipped around to stare at his friend, aghast. “Bloody Hell!”

“Sherlock had to... go first. He did it, and she said it, and Eurus hung up the call then and there and we didn’t hear from Molly again until a few days after it was all done.” John’s face arranged itself in sorrowful lines. “By then she was in a pretty awful state. I had a long talk with her, and then Sherlock and she had a long talk, and since then, things have been... okay, I guess. But you know how Sherlock is about relationships, love, sex, all that business. He’s convinced that he doesn’t do that, doesn’t feel that. And he made it clear there was never going to be a chance for - well for him to feel for her like that, I guess. It wasn’t really news to her, but even so, she’s taking it pretty hard.”

“Christ, poor Molly,” Greg said. “She’s got such a good heart - you’d think somebody would see how special she is.” He looked back at the doors where Molly had gone. 

After a quiet moment John asked, “are you thinking of volunteering?” 

Again, Greg spun around to regard John. “What? No! No. I was just - sympathizing, I guess. It’s hard to have it so bad for someone who you’ll never...” Greg suddenly felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, replacing the jealousy with lead as he looked at John, with his compassionate expression and his lovely blue eyes. ‘ _ Christ, I know just how she feels, don’t I?’ _ “She deserves better.”

“Yeah. She really does.” John’s eyes seemed to grow distant for a moment. 

Unable to stop himself, Greg twisted the knife. “What about you?”

John’s gaze snapped back to Greg. “What about me?” he said, puzzled. 

“You’re not a volunteer, then?” 

The surprise in John’s face was a welcome sight. “God, no,” he stammered. “I’m probably the worst candidate for a relationship right now. I’ve got Rosie, and a boatload of emotional baggage; add that to my mad best friend and my rather violent hobbies, and I’m a disaster waiting to happen.” His self-deprecation was meant to deflect with humor, but Greg caught the undercurrent of self loathing and it wrung his heart. He tried to lighten the mood, and crossed to John to give him a friendly punch on the arm.

“You and me both, then, mate. Maybe we should have a fling, eh?” At that moment, Greg realized what had just come out of his mouth and his face heated. ‘ _ Stupid! Bloody! Wanker! What are you DOING?’ _

John’s face broke into a broad smile as behind him, Greg heard the morgue doors swing open again. “Dunno, Greg, don’t sell yourself short - I heard that pretty forensic tech Anderson is training up call you ‘DI Silver Fox’ the other day. You might see if she’s free this weekend.” His waggling eyebrows were unfairly attractive, Greg’s mortified brain thought. His groin agreed.

“Oh, yes, if you have a thing for twenty-something women fresh out of university who have more daddy issues than they have student loans, that would likely be a fantastic idea,” drawled a familiar baritone voice. “No, Lestrade, I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere again for ‘the one.’”

Greg rolled his eyes as he turned around to face Sherlock. “About time you got here,” he growled, hoping his blush didn’t show under his tan. “We’ve been here for ages, and you’re the one who wanted to come see the bodies again in the first place.” 

“Yes, well, Mrs. Hudson was not entirely on time for her turn with Rosamund. I couldn’t very well leave John’s daughter alone, could I?” Sherlock replied loftily, brushing past the two men in his path to the next room of the morgue. “Has Molly pulled the bodies, yet?” 

“I’m not sure,” John hedged, “she needed... a few minutes.”

Sherlock spun around to stare at John, brow creased into a frown. “What for?” he demanded. 

“She just did,” John replied doggedly, and stared back at his friend, posture and expression tense.

Sherlock seemed to get the message after a moment, and his face went from petulant to sober. “Ah,” he said morosely. “Well, then...” he seemed at a loss. The three stared at the floor for a moment. Sherlock hummed out a breath, then whirled and headed toward the slabs in the next room anyway. “Ah ha!” he called, “Molly is very, very good. They’re both right here and ready to go.” 

As Sherlock took them through his deductions in his usual flamboyant style, Greg wondered if it was a shame, or a kindness, that Molly was not here for Sherlock’s compliment. Would he someday not want to know how John felt about him, if it wasn’t to return the romantic feelings that he had to work harder and harder to hide? He’d had unreturned infatuations before, but somehow this felt different. Stronger, maybe? Certainly more lasting than any of his other crushes, and... visceral in a way he hadn’t encountered since his younger days.

“Lestrade, I am not speaking purely for my own benefit. Pay attention!” Sherlock’s irritated tones broke into his ruminations. He looked up to see Sherlock glowering from the far side of an open chest cavity and John smirking at him like a schoolboy whose best mate had been scolded by the teacher. He shook his head and stepped up to the body, putting his thoughts aside. There was a crime to solve; he’d worry about his heart later. 

~~oOo~~

Greg was pretty sure he’d be able to keep Sherlock from noticing his increasing interest in John, if his cock would give him a blessed moment’s peace when he was around the man. It was just ridiculous; he was a middle-aged divorced DI, for chrissake, not a hormonal teenager! Now that John had exchanged his frumpy old-man jumpers for button-down shirts and snug jeans, (bless Mary’s memory for helping him learn what flattered him) and let go of his high and tight army haircut in favor of the softer, swept-off-his-face style he was wearing this year, John’s natural, lived-in handsomeness was on display in everything he did. Greg couldn’t help himself; he had bloody eyes, dammit, and John was always... bending, and... crouching and...  _ flexing _ things in those clothes. It should be banned for indecency: John Watson’s arse in fitted jeans as he bent down to look at footprints in the muck of an alleyway, or his biceps in snug sleeves as he crossed his arms over his chest to give a culprit a hard stare, or his thighs pumping as he chased Sherlock in pursuit of a suspect that had done a runner. 

He knew he was in trouble with this most recent case, when Sherlock breezed onto the scene with John in tow. John who’d clearly been dragged directly from some sort of exercise; still in his trainers and tracksuit, hair slicked from a shower, color high on his cheeks. He looked lively and rugged and bloody  _ edible _ , and Greg should not be thinking like that about a mate while standing over a decapitated waitress. He shook himself and adjusted his stance to make a little space for his half-mast, then turned his head away from the tempting sight - to look directly into the icy eyes of Sherlock Holmes, who had been staring at him keenly. 

“You’re thinking of someone,” the man declared in his deep voice, “someone has caught your interest. Who is it? Wait:” he threw up a hand in Greg’s face. “Don’t tell me, I’ll deduce it.” Behind him, John rolled his eyes and threw Greg a lopsided grin in support. 

“You’d do better to tell me why someone wanted this nice woman in two pieces, Sherlock,” Greg retorted shortly. “I didn’t ask you here for the gossip.”

“I’ll do both, in time, Lestrade,” Sherlock replied flippantly, and snapped on his vinyl gloves with extra fervor before bending to observe the body. Greg stepped back to let him work; if he was very very lucky, Sherlock would be distracted by the case and drop the deductions about Greg’s feelings. 

John made his way to Greg’s side after having his own look at the scene. “She was dead before she was decapitated,” John said. “In case that was bothering you. Looks like she was choked to death, as far as I can tell.”

Greg grunted his thanks, not looking over at John. The last thing he needed was to be preoccupied and aroused at a crime scene. 

“So, did you change your mind about the new forensic tech, then? What’s her name, Anne, right?” the teasing note in John’s voice was just not cricket; Greg had imagined him using almost that exact tone during his shower this morning, though what he was saying was more... specific. Greg shut his eyes tightly and pictured the ripest corpse he’d ever been called to oversee; it was the best erection-killer he had come across in his life. 

“No,” he growled shortly. “So, what does his Nibs say about the murder, then?” 

“Nothing, yet. He’s off in his mind palace,” John’s arm came into his peripheral vision, indicating Sherlock over to one side, eyes clenched shut and hands gesturing in the air in seemingly random patterns. “Come on then, give over - who’s the lucky lady?” John’s elbow nudged his arm insistently, “gimmie a hint, yeah? You’re the closest thing I’ve got to a social life these days, so...” Greg could feel John’s eyes on him, making his skin tingle.

Greg cast a look heavenward and sighed, “You keep saying that, and it’ll come true,” he said and turned to John with several more choice words ready to take the piss.  _ Mistake, Lestrade, big mistake! _ His mind fluttered frantically, caught by the playful scrunch to John’s nose, captivated by the light in his eyes. He stared at John like a deer in headlights. “It’s nothing, John, really,” he stuttered. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind lately, makes me distracted.” 

“Well! Handsome bloke like you shouldn’t let himself go to waste,” John teased. “Plenty of fish in the sea, and all that. And I expect to hear all about it, like a soap opera!”

_ What if you were IN the soap opera? _ Greg’s mind shouted.  _ You could be the star.  _ “Now John, I’m not the kind to kiss and tell. Or blog about it,” he added thoughtfully. 

“Hey now, that’s not fair. I never blogged about my dates,” John said, affecting a pout that didn’t fool anyone, but which Greg found adorable anyway. 

“No, you just let Sherlock comment about them, that’s almost worse.” Greg chuckled. “Bitchy’s in his blood, he can’t help it.”

John was drawing breath to retort, faux indignation on his face, when Sherlock popped out of his mind palace. “Interrupted trying to dispose of the corpse...” he muttered as his silver-blue eyes scanned the assembled crowd of lollygaggers and looky-loos by the police tape; then he yelled “YOU!” before dashing off to grab for a burly fellow in a hoodie at the edge of the crowd. The hoodie bloke dodged, pulling other bystanders into the lanky detective’s path as he turned to run.

“Bollocks!” John cursed, and sped off in pursuit. Greg couldn’t help but notice the track suit clinging to his pert arse and muscled thighs. 

The DI followed, feeling both relieved and bereft. Having John’s attention was warming and lovely.  _ And sexy and strong and under those track bottoms, cripes... no, nope - Croydon crime scene, July, hot, oh god the smell.  _ But at least he hadn’t made any damning statements in front of Sherlock... this time. Greg knew his chances were getting worse by the day and shook his head as he loped after the pair sprinting in pursuit of their suspect. _ I am utterly buggered, aren’t I? _


	5. Chapter 5

Greg sat in an uncomfortable chair, in a hospital hallway painted an unappetizing green, with his hands wrapped around the world’s worst coffee listening while Sally got him caught up. 

“So, that bloke who took off from the crime scene was the murderer all right; he’d killed his girlfriend after a fight. The freak had figured that out right on the scene, yeah? He was taking her to pieces after he’d done her in so he could get rid of them easier, but someone was coming to look at the empty apartment where he’d stashed her, so he chucked her down into that skip. Turns out what the freak hadn’t got right was that the initial fight and murder had been over the boyfriend’s angel dust habit.”

Angel dust; christ, that explained a lot, Greg thought. That wanker had been a tough one; Sherlock and John had brought him to bay within a few blocks, but as strung out as he was, he had decided to fight. And angel dust was known to make someone violent - and strong. In the end, it had taken five bobbies with batons to get the sodding git down and cuffed after John and Sherlock had got him cornered, with the crazed bugger struggling and ranting all the while. 

John and Sherlock had been brought to A&E after the perpetrator was in custody, both of them battered and winded, leaning against each other in the ambulance. Come to find out, Sherlock had two cracked ribs and would be in hospital overnight for observation for internal injuries, guarded by a pair of Mycroft’s spooks inside his room. Mycroft was not the only one worried about Sherlock being in any hospital after the events from a few months ago; John had visibly relaxed when Mycroft announced the guard detail, much to Sherlock’s indignant chagrin. Greg might possibly have taken his picture while he ranted. 

During the brawl, John had been slammed against a brick wall when he’d tried to take the perpetrator down with a sleeper hold, clinging on his back like a monkey with an arm locked around the fellow’s thick neck. The former soldier was bruised all up and down his back, and had a lump the size of an egg on the back of his skull. Greg shook his head in awed disbelief every time he thought of it. John was one hell of a fighter, that was for sure, and John was the last one to let himself be helped. Knowing the man as he did, Greg was waiting for his friend to be released from A&E after they checked him over and had every intention of making him go home and rest. Greg took a long swig of his coffee; he’d need all the energy he could get to convince John. 

Greg thanked his sergeant and asked her to keep him informed if there were further developments, and she nodded briskly and headed out, on her way back to the Yard to file her reports and begin collating the evidence for eventual trial. The DI suspected that’s why she had such a grudge for Sherlock; he never had to do the paperwork after his chases and adventures. Greg could sympathize, most days. 

Just then, John Watson stepped through the doors opposite; moving slowly and carefully, face grey with exhaustion and pain. In his hand he held his discharge papers that would likely include a prescription for a painkiller that Greg knew he would not fill unless forced to. John noticed Greg sitting there in the chair, obviously waiting for him, and drew himself up straight with a grimace. “You’re still here,” he said. Greg could hear the effort he put into seeming nonchalant, and was suddenly hit with a fierce desire to just wrap the man in his arms, hold him and somehow, make him believe that he didn’t have to pretend with Greg. 

He cleared his suddenly tight throat. “Course I am, you tosser,” he said with a frown that conveyed he wasn’t buying the act, “what’s the damage, then?”

John deflated a bit, but still had a mulish look about him. “Nothing too terrible, just bruises on my back and a knock on the skull. Not concussed, so I can sleep when I get home. A little rest and I’ll be right as rain.” He eyed Greg warily. 

“That’s good news. Well then, let’s go. Which of those is the prescription?” Greg decided that he would just proceed as though it was agreed that he would take John home and make sure he was all right. He stood and casually snagged the papers from John’s hand, easily dodging the grab his friend made to get it back. It was a measure of how hurt John was that Greg was faster on the draw, and they both knew it; John’s frustrated “hey!” merely punctuated the point.

Greg shuffled through the papers and found the scripts, one for an anti-inflammatory pain killer, and one for a sleeping pill. “Can we fill these here?” he asked John, “or will we have to stop at the chemist’s?”

John drew breath to protest that he didn’t need them, but blew it out when he caught Greg’s skeptical stare. “There’s a pharmacy next to the entrance that’s open late. We can get them there on the way to your car.” The fight seemed to drain out of John then, and he turned to shuffle his way out of the hospital. Greg still wanted to put an arm around him, but settled for walking close enough to brush shoulders from time to time, ready to catch John if he should need it. 

When they arrived at John’s flat, prescriptions in hand, Greg ushered his friend through the front door and hailed Molly, who had been watching Rosie for the day. They held a conversation over John’s head about what had happened and then moved on to how John’s daughter had seemed during the afternoon, had she eaten, and when she went down to sleep. All seemed in order, and Molly’s concerned expression eased when Greg assured her he’d be taking the guest room for the night, and possibly the next few nights, too, if it was needed. 

John’s head came up at that and he began to protest. “Hang on Greg, now that’s not necessary. I’ll be fine tomorrow after I get a hot shower and some sleep.” 

Greg interrupted before John could get up too much steam. “John, you have a head injury and you’re one huge bruise right now, and you have a child under a year old in the house. Of course you need someone here with you! What if Rosie needs something in the night and you’re too stiff to pick her up? Or you don’t hear her because you’re sleeping hard from the painkillers?” He held up a hand as John’s mouth opened, “and don’t tell me that you won’t take them, because that’s bollocks, mate. You need them, and if a patient of yours said something so stupid you wouldn’t let them get away with that shite for a second. Just be glad I’m not calling Mycroft to send over a nanny for you and Rosie, both.” John’s mouth closed with a snap, but he favored Greg with the most eloquent, disgusted glare the DI had ever been on the receiving end of, then shuffled down the hall to his room. The door closed with an emphatic clunk.

Molly looked at Greg with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. Greg chuckled. 

“Well, that’s me told, innit. I’ll go get him some water so he can take these pills and get to bed.”

“If you don’t need me for anything, I’ll get on my way, then, I guess,” Molly said, “I’ve got work in the morning. I’m glad you’re here to keep an eye on them.” She patted Greg on the shoulder, “You’re a good friend, Greg. John and Rosie are lucky to have you.” She looked at him steadily for a moment longer, then nodded her head and went to gather her things. Greg felt a little unsettled; had he been so obvious as to show his hand in front of Molly? She was very perceptive when she wanted to be, he knew. Though this wasn’t really a typical situation. 

Greg put it out of his mind; he had more important things to focus on at the moment. Like how he would convince John to take these painkillers and go to sleep until tomorrow. He checked on Rosie, who was fast asleep, oblivious to the ruckus. Then he drew a glass of water from the tap and headed down the hall to John’s room, painkillers in hand. He tapped on the door and spoke as he opened it. “John, I’ve got those painkillers for you...” he trailed off as the man tried to whip around to face him, pained breath hissing between his teeth. 

John stood in the middle of the room, shirtless. His back had been to the door, and it was, as far as Greg could tell, one big bruise from neck to hips, still in the process of darkening to purple and which disappeared into the waistband of his trousers. As he swiveled, John’s chest came into view, smooth bare skin lightly fuzzed with pale blond hair, his scar (an obvious exit wound) now faded to silver on his shoulder. Greg noted rosy brown nipples tightened by the cool air of the room, a flat belly with just enough softness to be grippable, and a neat bellybutton which marked the start of a line of hair pointing downward. He blinked, and caught a reflection on the wall, where a full-length mirror was hung. John’s injured back showed clearly, and he stared at it.

“Jesus, John. Your back looks like it must hurt like hell,” he stuttered. “Here are the pills for you to take,” he held out the glass of water and the containers they had picked up at the chemist. 

John glowered and crossed his arms over his chest, covering the scar on his shoulder with his hand. A part of Greg’s mind noted that it served to emphasize his pectoral and bicep muscles instead, to very good effect in fact, but that part was rather quiet in the face of how much damage John had sustained. 

“I should take a hot shower before I go to bed,” John growled, “or I’ll stiffen up overnight.”

“Oh, yeah, alright,” Greg said, still not averting his eyes, “do you need help?” he placed the water and pills on the nightstand. 

“No,” John said shortly. 

“Well, I’d like you to take the painkiller at least, John. You must be hurting under all that.” Greg set his chin stubbornly and stared at John from under lowered eyebrows. “Don’t go fulfilling the stereotype about doctors being the worst patients, now.”

John growled inarticulately, but gingerly stepped to the nightstand to take the pills. Greg held out a terry cloth dressing gown that had been hung on the back of the door next to him so that John could slip his arms into it easily, then backed out of John’s room and shut the door. In a moment, John came through in just the bathrobe, and shut himself in the bathroom to turn on the water.  

Greg leaned against the wall in the hallway, listening to the sounds and muffled groans of John getting into the shower. His mind was a muddled mess of concern for John’s injuries and a breathless undercurrent of  _ oh my god I had no idea he was so fit! _ He figured he’d better get out of the hallway before John finished; confused, concerned arousal was probably not the best way to help his friend.

~~oOo~~

Greg awoke to the sound of a baby crying. Frowning, he looked around the unfamiliar room lit by the palest grey light of very early morning, until his brain caught up with him. Right, he was in John’s guestroom. On the nightstand, a baby monitor emitted another wail from Rosie, so Greg threw back the covers and hurried down the hall. After the night they’d had, the last thing John needed was to be woken much too early because his daughter wasn’t looked after properly. 

As he strode to the nursery, he took stock - feeling pretty good, actually; mostly rested and only a little stiff. He hadn’t been the one to take damage during last night’s chase through the streets, and was very, very grateful for that fact. 

“And there she is, my little Rosie-posie,” Greg crooned as he entered the nursery. “Whassa matter, darlin’?” Rosie’s wails took on a less frantic tone at the sound of his voice, and she waved little limbs in frustration from her cot. He picked her up. “Aha, no wonder - you’re soaked! Let’s get you cleaned up a bit, and then we’ll see if you can’t go back down for a few more hours, yeah?” He suited words to action, taking her over to the changing table and beginning the process of changing the wet jammies and soiled nappy for dry, clean ones, taking particular care to clean her skin and check for rashes. As he worked, Rosie looked up at him with wide baby blues, and her cries turned to raspberries and coos in response to the silly faces he made for her. His heart warmed at the sight, and his voice filled with tenderness as he kept up his stream of consciousness chatter to amuse her.  

“You Watsons, I swear. You’ve stolen my heart all away, haven’t you? First there’s you, my little lovey,” he tapped her gently on the nose after doing the last snaps on her onesie, and smiled as she giggled and grabbed at his finger. “You’re a right little terror, you are. One smile from you and I’m happy as can be.” He lifted her from the changing table and put her up to his shoulder, patting her back to settle her as he headed over to the rocking chair. 

“And then your Daddy, oh, m’girl, what a number he’s done on me, yeah?” he tipped his head to rest against the back of the chair as he rocked, closing his eyes and speaking in a sweet, singsong voice to lull the child against his chest. “He’s a bloody terror, too. You both have those eyes, blue as the sea on a sunny day, don’t you? See down to my soul, it feels like, sometimes. And you won’t understand this for a while yet, thank god, but Rosie, I’ll tell you a secret,” he huffed as the girl nuzzled her face into his neck like she always did, so sweet and soft, and his voice lowered to a hushed whisper. “I think I might love your Dad a bit. And want him too, Christ yes. He’s so fit, so strong and gorgeous, even under all that bruising, poor sod - er, you’ll learn about that soon enough, m’girl, never you mind about it now. Just go to sleep.” Eyes still closed, he rubbed the girl’s back in slow circles, knowing she was drifting off again and not wanting to jinx it. “He’d kick me for saying it, but sometimes I just want to hold him like I do with you, my fine miss, just wrap arms around him and give him a cuddle for an hour. Yeah Rosie, someone should take care of your Dad; he takes care of all the rest of us, must be bloody tiring after awhile.” He trailed off, feeling the baby relaxed and limp against his chest, her little puffs of breath in the steady rhythm of sleep. 

A hushed chuckle cut through the quiet. “Yeah, I guess it is.” 

Greg’s stomach dropped and he stiffened in his chair. Rosie smacked her lips restlessly and rolled her head on his shoulder, so he got up and put her back in her cot before turning around to see a tousled John Watson leaning in the doorway. John’s gaze was steady, though tired. Greg returned his look apprehensively, and silence stretched between them.  

Eventually, Greg’s nerves got the better of him. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” he asked defensively. 

John just smiled, then said, “I heard the commotion and came to see if you needed help. You seem to have things under control.”

Greg blushed and grumbled, “not my mouth, if you were here long.” 

“Long enough, I expect.” 

Greg groaned and dropped his head into his hands, mortified to his core. “Oh, bugger. Look, just forget the whole thing, yeah? It’s not like I’d expect anything, I’ll never mention it again, nothing’s different.” He braced himself for the awkwardness of John’s response. He was surprised by how unperturbed John sounded when he replied.

“Hey, now, Greg - it’s fine, it’s all fine. I’m not upset, I’m not going to freak out on you. You’re a good friend, to me and to Rosie.” John ran a hand through his hair, tousling it further. Even through his embarrassment, Greg noted it was a good look on him.  _ Jesus Christ, man, timing!  _  “I’m going back to bed, and if there’s more to say when we wake up, that’s... well, it’s fine.” 

Greg suddenly needed to be away from this room with its childish furniture and sleeping baby, be away from the man in the doorway with his kind expression. But he couldn’t go home until John was recovered. Bed was the next best choice, and he edged himself out into the hall, careful not to touch John or pass any closer than he had to. “Yeah, alright. Back to bed for me, too.” Greg turned tail and hid in the guestroom, wallowing in the embarrassment his rambling had earned him. He didn’t get back to sleep.

~~oOo~~

When they all were up for the day, Greg had remained at John’s only as long as he had to after his early-morning, inadvertent confession; working his way silently through tea and toast, and asking after John’s hurts in an awkward, stilted manner. John raised an eyebrow but forbore to comment, other than to report he was sore but functional. Rosie was a delight as usual, and Greg made much of her until John had dressed and was obviously able to go it on his own. 

Greg had collected his things and was headed to the door when John’s voice stopped him. “Greg,” John called, hurrying to catch him, “look, about before-”

“John, please, there’s nothing to say about it.”

“I just wanted-”

“John, really, I -”

“Shut up a minute, okay?” John said loudly. He sighed. “I know you must be embarrassed about what I heard. But I want you to know, it doesn’t change anything for me. You’re one of my best friends, and I wouldn’t lose that for the world - I’ve had enough of losing the good people in my life, yeah?” He looked at Greg from under his brows, earnest and serious while Greg wished the ceiling would cave in and kill him right there. “And though I can’t... well - I am flattered. You deserve someone better than a broken old soldier who tags along with a danger-prone arsehole to get his kicks. Even if I do come with the cutest baby sidekick.” John flashed a grin which faded in the face of Greg’s pained silence, then shuffled his feet a moment. “Okay?” John was looking for a response besides horrified mute shock, Greg realized. 

“Yeah, okay. Erm, thanks, I think.” Greg stuttered, already flustered, and then more so when John reached up and squeezed his shoulder. 

“Great. I’ll call you; Rosie will miss you if we skip our Saturdays,” John smiled and finally, finally, thank christ  _ finally _ , let him leave. 

He went straight home and started drinking, despite it barely being lunchtime. By the time he passed out, he had almost forgotten his own name, let alone John’s.


	6. Chapter 6

If the last few weeks had been wonderful hell, the next few were the much less wonderful kind. As if in retribution for his self-pitying booze binge, ( _one time, it was one time!_ he protested to the heavens) Greg suddenly had cases coming out his ears that needed the Holmes  & Watson special touch, and so was faced with John almost every other day. He hated it when John skipped over his usual teasing greeting on the first crime scene, but Greg was stiff and formal too; he didn’t know how to behave in John’s presence now that his friend knew he wasn’t entirely platonic in his affections. And all the things that had attracted him to John were still there; John’s handsome face and figure, his intelligence and snarky wit, his steadfast loyalty and strength. Now Greg noticed, and felt guilty for noticing, and wondered if John noticed him noticing and if it would make John uncomfortable - or worse, if he’d see pity in those blue eyes. And soon he couldn’t hardly look in John’s direction at all, his thoughts and his heart were so snarled up. You’d think he was still a teenager, he felt that rattled. So he played the brisk professional and resented how much he missed the smiles and the jokes and the teasing nudges of elbows or shoulders. Even more, he missed John asking him how he was doing or scolding him for not taking care of himself or just standing next to him in companionable silence, offering him that caring that was so genuine and not to be found anywhere else in Greg’s life. _Blimey, that’s pitiful, Lestrade._ _Only had the one friend, did you, then?_

Greg’s usually sunny disposition took a turn for the worse. When he wasn’t working, he was holed up in his flat, staring at crap telly until his eyes burned and he could go to sleep; hopefully quickly enough that he wouldn’t replay the last time he had seen John _(but just professional John, interacting with distant professional Greg, not the funny warmth of friendship, not the simmering stew of carefully hidden desire, oh no.)_ It worked about one night in three. The rest of the time, he was miserable, tossing and turning most of the night.  

When John first called to ask about babysitting, he begged off, saying he had to work. Then he canceled - by text - the next Saturday for the same reason. He missed Rosie terribly, but he just couldn’t bring himself to face John, even for the short time at the beginning and end of a sitting gig. It was juvenile, it was cowardly, and he should be a better man than this; but his heart felt bruised with dashed hopes and shame. Seeing John, talking to John made it hurt all over again. He just needed a little time to try and patch it up, to harden his heart somewhat, until he didn’t want to burst out in unmanly tears when John smiled at someone else. Especially since lately, John was not smiling at him. At least, he assumed not; he hadn’t really talked or looked at John for longer than a second in at least a week. _Because you’re a bloody coward. He’s still your friend - what are you doing to yourself?_

~~oOo~~

It was almost nine on a Friday night as Greg sat at his desk at the Yard, face in his hands, trying to summon the energy to pack up and go home for the weekend. So he was somewhat surprised when Sherlock Holmes entered in a cloud of London air and irritation, dropping onto Greg's guest chair dramatically. The git propped his feet up on the desk, dislodging a file from one of the stacks and sending it sliding messily to the floor. He steepled his leather-gloved hands together against his top lip and narrowed his eyes at Greg like he was a specimen pinned to a dissecting board.

Greg rubbed his face wearily and eyed Sherlock skeptically. “What the hell do you want at this hour, Sherlock? You solved the last one this morning, and left us regular types to do the paperwork as usual, thanks loads.”

“What did you do to John?” Sherlock asked shortly.

“What?”

“Don’t play stupid, Lestrade. Something happened between you and John, and now John has asked if he should stop coming with me to crime scenes.” Sherlock dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward, spearing Greg with an even more intent glare. “Do you understand how serious that is?”

Greg frowned. John loved the work he did with Sherlock; he thrived on it. Why would he want to stop doing it? Unless he really wasn’t comfortable being near Greg? There wasn’t much more Greg could do to be non-threatening at a crime scene; he was already pretty much ignoring John altogether. “Hmm, that seems a bit odd. Did he say why?”

“Would I be asking you, if he had?” Sherlock replied acidly. “Use your mind, Lestrade, if you still can under all this moping about you’ve been doing.”

“I’m not a mind reader, Sherlock."

“Obviously not.”

"Well then, how am I supposed to know why he’s changed his mind?” Greg snapped.

"You're not," Sherlock snorted, “but you can tell me what happened, and then I will convince him to continue.” Sherlock leaned back in the chair, and made as if to put his feet up again, only to stop at Greg’s growl of negation.

“I don’t know what happened, Sherlock.” Greg’s words were clipped and hard. The last thing he wanted to do was discuss his painful feelings with a man who would likely insult him for having them.

“I can tell you’re lying, Lestrade. It’s obvious you and John have had a falling out. John is morose and short-tempered, you’ve stopped sitting for Rosamund, and you’re acting the utter arsehole at every crime scene we attend. So what. Happened?” Sherlock leaned in once more, sweeping Greg with his perceptive gaze, looking for twitches and tells. “You may as well tell me; I’ll get it out of you eventually, and it won’t be fun for either of us,” he added darkly.

Greg pushed up out of his chair and paced to lessen the force of Sherlock’s intent stare. After a moment he groaned, knowing Sherlock was right, the bastard. Neither of them would enjoy dragging this out. “Fine. I’ll tell you, but you are not to talk to John about it. And if he...” Greg heaved a breath in and out. “If he wants to avoid me by not coming to crime scenes, you will not force him, Sherlock, you hear me?”  

Greg flopped back down into his chair and put his head back in his hands. “I’ve developed... feelings... for John, and the last time I was sitting for Rosie, I was chattering to her about it like a stupid twit, and John overheard me. So now it’s... awkward. He’s uncomfortable, and I don’t want to make it worse by making him act like everything is fine, so I leave him be when I see him and I’m staying out of his way.”

Silence fell between the two men. Greg rubbed his face with his hands, but didn’t raise his head to see what expression Sherlock was making after this revelation; he was sure it was something he would not be pleased to see.

“Lestrade... Greg,” Greg’s head snapped up - he could count the times Sherlock had correctly used his first name on one hand. “You are an idiot.” Sherlock leaned back in the guest chair and returned his feet to the desk; Greg didn't bother to protest this time. “In your job, you are supposed to observe and draw useful conclusions from what you see. And yet, you are drawing completely wrong conclusions from what you are observing about John. Have I taught you nothing in all this time?”

Greg merely stared at him, eyebrows raised skeptically.

Sherlock groaned. “Must I lead you like a child? I thought I was supposed to be the emotionally incompetent one, but it seems you are being deliberately blind in this case.”

“Sherlock, if you’re just going to insult me you can bugger right off,” Greg snapped.

“You are the cause of John’s problem,” Sherlock said loudly.

Greg scoffed, throwing up his hands. “I know, Sherlock, I just told you that. He’s uncomfortable with me because I fancy him.”

“No, Lestrade, you’re wrong. John is my best friend, and has said I am his; it’s fair to say I know the man as well as anyone can. John Watson is not homophobic. He has never been perturbed by anyone’s orientation. In all the time I’ve known him and observed him with our clients of all stripes, whether they flirted or were indifferent, he has never been uncomfortable with that aspect of someone’s character. He has few people he trusts, who he is genuinely at ease with as friends and confidants, but when he says ‘it’s all fine,’ he means it.”

Sherlock stood and paced the floor back and forth in the small office, hands steepled and tapping against his lower lip. “That’s the key. He trusts you. You made your unintentional declaration, embarrassing yourself thoroughly, and then have been sulking at home, refusing to go see Rosie, and ignoring John when you see him. You’ve cut him off.” He pinned Greg with a disgusted look. “You tell yourself you’re doing him a favor, but really, you’re depriving him of a true friend when he has so very few, simply because you can’t face him. Oh, well done, Lestrade,” Sherlock’s voice dripped sarcasm. “You’ve cocked this up quite spectacularly. This is exactly why I abhor romantic entanglements.” His coat swirled around his knees as Sherlock loomed, arms crossed on his chest, glare like a laser focused on Greg’s shocked face.

Greg’s mind spun. Was Sherlock right? Had he been so wrapped up in his own embarrassment that he had unintentionally hurt John, dropped out of his life without a word of explanation? John had been through so much; he didn’t deserve to be treated like that. _Thought you loved him, Greg? Bloody nice way of showing it._ John’s face rose in his mind’s eye from the last time Greg had seen him, that morning at the crime scene. Were John’s eyes sad? Was his usual bright energy lacking as he delivered his information to Sally, not Greg? It wasn’t easy to tell, since Greg had observed only by shooting surreptitious glances at the man from time to time but- _Sherlock’s right. He misses you, you selfish prick._ “You... may have a point, there, Sherlock.”

Predictably, the consulting prat rolled his eyes, and turned to leave. “I may be uninterested in relationships, Lestrade, but one thing I’ve learned - primarily because of John Watson: love is unselfish in its essence. Pursuit of it, loss of it, greed for it drives people to do terrible and vicious things, yes, but the emotion itself is admirable when offered freely and without expectation. I think you’d agree John deserves as much as he can have, and yours would not be wasted on him, should you still wish to give it.” He looked back over his shoulder at Greg’s gobsmacked expression with a wry twist to his lips. “Good night, Lestrade.” The office door hung open after his departure, much like Greg’s jaw.

“Bloody buggering hell,” he mused to himself when his reeling thoughts had slowed, “Sherlock Holmes just schooled me on the nature of love.” And, he realized, had as much as given his blessing to Greg’s feelings for John; almost a miracle in itself.

Well, since miracles were the order of the day, Greg knew what he needed to do. He fished his phone out of his pocket.

 _‘Unexpected day off tomorrow. Do you need a haircut or errands? Missing Rosie, could come babysit. - GL’_ he sent, wondering if the man on the other end of the message would even see it before the morning, and whether he would choose to respond after Greg’s cold shoulder.

He didn’t have to wait long. _‘She misses you, too. Yes, please, could you come by at half ten? - JW’_ Greg's face cracked into a smile; it felt rusty after the last two weeks.

 _‘Great! See you then. - GL’_ Smile widening, he hit ‘send’ with gusto.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, avoiding the nervous butterflies in his belly meant Greg arrived right on time and knocked on the door. A muffled voice said “Hang on! There in a mo’!” It was John’s voice, exasperated and harried; Greg tried the doorknob and to his surprise found it unlocked. 

“Oi! I’m just letting myself in, John,” he called, to put John at ease as quickly as possible when the sounds of his entry registered. He nodded as a slightly strangled “Alright!” came back.

He moved down the hall to the sitting room, where sounds of babyish merriment and parental irritation could be heard. Greg paused in the doorway, restraining a smile as he took in the scene: John knelt over Rosie, who was laid on a pad on the floor; he was changing her nappy while the girl squirmed and rolled, entranced by the bright balls just out of reach by her head. John looked like he’d been caught by surprise this time around; it was a messy change, and the squirming hadn’t helped. In fact, it may have... splattered. John looked up as Greg appeared and said “Don’t you dare laugh!”

Greg couldn’t help it; he did just that. John rolled his eyes and made a growling sound that had Rosie crowing and reaching for her father’s hands, which were decidedly not hygienic. 

“Looks like you could use a hand, mate,” Greg said as his last few chuckles tapered off. “Let’s just put her in the bath for a minute, yeah? She’ll need new clothes anyway, and she always likes a bath, your girl there.” He turned and headed for the bathroom down the hall, shedding his coat along the way. “Let me run the water.” 

John arrived after a minute with a naked Rosie held out at arm's length, eyebrows raised in question. Greg nodded and indicated the bath, steadying Rosie as her father deposited her in the bottom of the tub. She crowed again and immediately began slapping the shallow water with pudgy hands. “I’ve got this, John, why don’t you finish cleaning up and find her some clean clothes while I get her washed?” 

John ruefully looked at his hands and less-than-savory shirtfront. “Yeah, good idea. Back in a few.” He vanished down the hallway.  

Greg washed the baby with a mild soap and soft cloth, then drained the tub and ran fresh water to let her sit a bit longer in the bath, her excited consonant sounds and splish-splashes as she explored the ways water behaved always a joy to watch. Greg didn’t miss the way she kept looking his way and grinning, either; it warmed his heart.  

“She missed you,” John said as he returned with clean nappy and new romper, clad in a different shirt. “She’s glad to see you again.” 

“Me too, m’girl, I missed you too,” Greg crooned. He stroked a callused hand over the softness of her blond head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I was being a bit of a self-involved prat having a crisis like a bleedin’ teenager, you see, but I’ve got my head on straight again now, don’t you worry.”  

A moment passed in silence, until Greg meekly looked over at John, who was regarding him with a softer version of his teasing, take-the-piss smile. Greg’s heart thumped hard in his chest, but he didn’t look away. 

“I think she forgives you,” John said, “as long as next time you come back and talk to her before you make a dick of yourself.” He arched an eyebrow to emphasize his point. 

“I dunno, John, making a dick of myself comes real easy, you know? It might be hard to shake the habit, but I’ll do my best.” He looked back down at Rosie, still splashing in her two inches of water in the tub and said, in his talking-to-the-baby voice, “your friendship is worth it, to me.” He felt a subtle heat creep up the back of his neck and hoped it didn’t show. 

A firm hand gripped his shoulder briefly, and then John was leaning over to pick up Rosie, towel draped over an arm to wrap around her and get her dry enough to dress.

“I’ve got to stop at the barber, and grab a few things at the shops, but I thought we could have lunch after, if you have time?” John said.

“Sounds great,” Greg replied, then he grinned as Rosie smacked a wet hand right on her dad’s face. God, he had missed them; both of them.

~~oOo~~

That day marked the start of their new pattern: when John needed a sitter, and Greg was free, he’d go over to John’s place and watch Rosie. When John returned, depending on what time of day it was, he’d invite Greg to stay for lunch, or dinner, or a beer and a football match recorded on the telly. Greg felt somehow liberated, now that his feelings were out in the open. He occasionally let his eyes or his smile reflect the softer side of his feelings for John; John didn’t seem to mind (or notice, actually.) In fact, aside from the occasional quizzical look, John didn’t behave differently toward him in the slightest - seemed like Sherlock had been right after all, the bastard.

At crime scenes, they were back to blokey banter and Sherlock-wrangling, macabre jokes and cups of utterly awful coffee in the small hours of the morning. Here, Greg maintained his professionalism, but didn’t bother to hide his enjoyment of moments where John had a chance to shine. Like that time he was able to take down a man twice his size by bending just two fingers back, while naming the bones in those fingers in the order they would break as he applied more pressure. Greg wanted to hug him for that one (to put it mildly; he was hard as a rock and very thankful for his mack at that moment) and Sherlock had applauded like he was at the National Theater on opening night. John’s bright smile had stuck with Greg all week, lightening his mood whenever he thought of it. 

Sherlock gave him a solemn nod the first time he and John had shown up for a murder after their Friday night chat and Greg’s return to babysitting and more normal behavior. Greg gravely nodded back, then flashed his white-toothed grin such that Sherlock blinked and turned to look behind him for who merited such enthusiasm. When he turned back, the thin face with its mobile mouth was twisted in a wry smile and he winked - winked! - at Greg before getting down to business.    

It didn’t take long to realize that revealing his feelings to John didn’t make them miraculously disappear; if anything, they continued to grow. Greg was truly hooked, at least for now. He didn’t begrudge it, though it did make for occasional awkward moments when John did something particularly, ahem, stimulating. When he’d catch himself watching John a little too hungrily, he’d excuse himself to talk to his team, or get a drink of water or something, give himself a firm mental shake, and come back to the ‘blokes together’ that was his interaction with John. It worked, for the most part. 

The times Greg loved best were when they would have dinner and watch telly at John’s place after putting Rosie down for the night. John only had the one sofa, so it meant they sat together, and if the show or match or movie they chose was particularly absorbing to John, Greg got a chance to watch him without John being aware. If it was merely entertaining, he was treated to John’s tendency to riff on the show under his breath in the most snarky, sarcastic way, which was hilarious. Usually they ended the night laughing, and Greg went home feeling happier than he’d been since years before his divorce. 

This night was like those, but a little different in that Mrs. Hudson was tucked away up in the guest room, their case having wrapped up well after Rosie’s bed time. Greg had offered to drive Sherlock and John home, and John had accepted readily; Sherlock had just spun and headed for the road to hail a taxi, waving his good nights over his shoulder. John rolled his eyes at this, and after offering to spare Greg the drive by getting his own taxi (which Greg vehemently refused to let him do) they blundered through the door of John’s flat well after ten PM, starved and riding the last fumes of a case-solved high. When they had hung their coats, they discovered Mrs. Hudson had left a note, saying she had gone to bed and there were sandwiches in the fridge. They fell on the plate like starved wolves. 

“How she does it, I’ll never know,” Greg said through his first enormous bite. “I think she might be a wizard.” 

“What, like Harry Potter? Yeah, that would explain a lot of things,” John said. “Most especially why she doesn’t mind all the hubbub with Sherlock; she just magics it fixed when we’re not looking.” 

“And her ‘herbal soothers’ are really a potion she makes out of bat’s wings,” Greg said, rolling with it and starting to snicker. 

“And the Aston Martin is an old Citroen, magicked to look amazing!” John said, joining in with his signature giggle. “It drives itself!”

“And Mycroft knows it, because he works for the Ministry of Magic, and he’s terrified she’ll turn him into a newt!” Greg was almost cackling now, and took a few deep breaths to calm his giddiness so he could keep taking bites of the delicious chicken salad sandwich.

John also took the opportunity to settle a bit, snorting around a bite of equally lovely egg salad. “You sound like you know what you’re talking about, with the wizards and all,” John inquired after a moment, one eyebrow raised and that dashing, lopsided smile speeding Greg’s pulse unexpectedly.  

“My niece is bloody obsessed with those books, so I’ve read them all. Took her to most of the films, too, once she was old enough,” Greg concentrated on finishing his supper and not on John’s laugh lines around his eyes. Definitely. It was a really good sandwich. (Christ, how did wrinkles make the man so attractive? It was unfair.) “They’re actually pretty good, the books, you know. You’ll probably end up reading them when Rosie’s older - modern British classic and all that.” He smirked at John, accepting that he would blush in the process. 

“Dear god, I guess I will. That calls for a whisky, you want one?” John stood and reached a bottle of amber liquid down from a high cupboard, then hunted for two tumblers in another, checking them for spots. Greg was pleased to see it was a very good whisky, carefully rationed. 

“Hell yes, I do,” Greg said, leaning back in his chair, half his sandwich finished. “Just neat, if you please.” 

John poured him a generous dram then busied himself with his own glass, adding ice and swirling the liquid around before taking a small sip and pulling a breath in through his teeth, nodding in satisfaction. Greg followed suit and enjoyed the warmth of the alcohol going down; it was really a very, very nice whisky indeed.  

“I think I’ve got England versus Germany saved on the telly, if you want?” John asked, putting a familiar hand on Greg’s shoulder as he rounded the table to collect his plate. “I’m thinking I’d like to finish my sandwich in there.”

“Good idea,” Greg agreed, and gathered his glass and plate with its remaining half sandwich to follow the trim silhouette into the sitting room. They flopped down onto the sofa and deposited their suppers on the coffee table. Greg continued wolfing his sandwich while John fiddled with remotes and channels, grumbling profanely under his breath when he couldn’t find the match he was looking for. 

“Dammit!” he growled finally, clicking the telly off, “I think I must have set this wrong; there’s some posh home decoration challenge in that slot. Bollocks.”

Greg leaned back into the sofa, tumbler in hand, and sipped at his whisky. “Not to worry, John,” he said amiably, “I’m just as happy to miss the noise after the day we’ve had. Let me finish my drink and I’ll be out of your hair.” He closed his eyes to better savor the liquor. “This is a lovely scotch, John, thank you.”

“Mycroft sent it at Christmas,” John said, musingly, “I generally save it for special occasions.” He leaned back against the cushions also, only a few inches from Greg.   

“And what’s the occasion, then? Fiftieth poisoning?” Greg was warmed from head to toe with scotch and John’s proximity, “Five hundredth case solved? Blog anniversary? Rosie’s first tooth?” John looked a little startled. “Oh, yeah, any time now, she’ll start teething. Poor little mite, you can do what my Mum did when we were teething and rub a bit of this,” he sipped again, delicately, “on her gums - she’ll calm right down.”

John snorted. “Yeah, right. Start my baby on the booze before she can walk! That’s brilliant, that is, what with my family history and all.” His smile didn’t change, but there was a tightness around his eyes. 

Greg gawped for a moment, “God, John, I’m sorry, I didn’t think... I wasn’t implying anything -”

“No, Greg, never mind. Poor taste on my part, and poor choices on my family’s.” John shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. “Not your fault. Anyhow, clove oil works just as well as scotch, so I’d probably use that, anyway. Smells better, too, at least on a baby.” 

Greg smiled, relieved, “definitely. All the best babies smell like spice drops.” He nudged John’s arm with his elbow. “Well, then, you didn’t say what the special occasion was,” he trailed off, raising his eyebrows inquiringly while he sipped the amber liquid in his glass. Only about a third left, he noticed wistfully; not much more time to spend with John so close on the sofa.

“Does there have to be one?” John asked, somewhat teasingly, his good humor regained. “Maybe I’m just glad to have your company.”

Greg snorted into his tumbler, rolling his eyes self-deprecatingly.

“No, really, Greg. I am glad you’re here.” John looked down into his own glass, swirling the ice in the bottom, then said, quietly, “when you left that morning it felt awful, and not because I was all banged up - I hated the look on your face. And then it seemed like we weren’t going to be... friends, anymore. I hated that even more. I missed you, even on crime scenes when you were right there.” John avoided Greg’s eyes, and sipped at his drink again, then seemed to come to a decision. “I’ve been thinking about you... a lot... since then.”  

Greg frowned, “John, you do believe I’m not going to do that again, don’t you? I’m not going to disappear for no good reason.”

“I hope you won’t have any reason at all,” John said, looking up and into Greg’s eyes with his deep blue irises that seemed to swallow his pupils in the low light of the sitting room lamp. “I actually, uh, hope... that you might have reason to come around more often...”

Greg blinked, unable to look away but confused by the turn the conversation had taken and unsure of what to say. He said nothing - just looked quizzically at his friend. 

John took what looked like a deep, fortifying breath, then placed his glass, empty now of anything but ice, on the coffee table. When he leaned back, he took Greg’s free hand in his own and leaned to put his head on Greg’s shoulder. “I was hoping you might come for me, as much as for Rosie, you know? I think we both want to have... more... of you.” He held Greg’s hand in both of his own, sliding his fingers over the back and up and down the weathered digits. John’s body seemed relaxed, but underneath it was a subtle tension, ready to spring back and away if he were unwelcome.

Greg twisted his head awkwardly to try to look at John’s head on his shoulder, quietly astounded at this development. He softened his shoulders, not wanting to spook the man while he came to grips with what seemed like the start of several of his recent dreams. John’s strong, sturdy hands were stroking his own callused paw gently, soothingly; it was wonderful. He breathed in his surprise overlaid with John’s rosemary-and-sandalwood scent.

“John?” he said so quietly as to almost whisper, “what’s happening here?”

John’s head came up from his shoulder, only a few inches from Greg’s face, a pink tongue swiping across thin lips hurriedly as he looked into Greg’s brown eyes. He drew breath to speak, but seemed not to be able to find the words. Instead, John leaned in and placed a soft, gentle kiss on Greg’s lips, then pulled back with eyes still shut, biting his bottom lip uncertainly. When Greg breathed out a shocked breath through his nose, a tiny smile curled the edges of his mouth, but the eyes stayed closed, waiting.

“John,” Greg rasped breathily, “are you sure about this? Really?”

John’s eyes opened at last, and his lopsided smile appeared as he nodded solemnly, eyes serious. Still he said nothing, and Greg took a chance, placing his glass on the table and using the hand to cup his friend’s jaw, tipping his head back so he could kiss that smile, feel those lips again. 

It was tentative at first, just a brushing of mouths and the lightest of latches but Greg was dizzy with them; after months of imagining, he was kissing John. The stubble on that square jaw tickled his palm; he felt a muscle there flex as John pressed more firmly into the kiss, and the sudden heat as John put his own hand against Greg’s neck to hold him in place. John made the tiniest of sounds, a request for more, and Greg could not deny him. He teased John’s thin lips with the tip of his tongue, swiping lightly along the seam of John’s mouth until it opened for him. 

John’s hand tightened against his neck, stroking the thin skin beneath his ear. Greg’s mind was buzzing, and a shiver raced down his spine as his tongue swept over John’s in a first, timid, exploratory pass. John responded eagerly, teasing Greg into bolder strokes and heady tastes of each other’s mouths. A hushed moan sounded in the room; Greg didn’t know if it was his or John’s, but it hardly mattered. He was submerged in the sensations of John, the smoky whisky taste of his mouth, the heat of his hand, the scratch of his fingernails as John released their clasped hands to slide his fingers into Greg’s hair. 

After some moments of increasingly heated kisses, Greg barely remembered how to breathe. He pulled back a little, panting, and groaned as John took the opportunity to move down his jaw and mouth at the lines of his neck, emitting little hums of appreciation as he licked and nipped. 

“John,” Greg said hoarsely, “yes, John.” His whole body was buzzing by this point; skin electric with the minimal pressing of John’s arms against him, cock protesting its limited space to fill out in his trousers. He wanted to pull John over on top of him, or pitch over on top of John, just so there was more contact between their bodies, more points for the heat to transfer from one to the other, some way to press harder, closer to John. 

“Want you, Greg,” John murmured against his throat, words stroking patterns on the skin, pauses interspersed for open mouthed nibbles of the tanned neck, “so gorgeous. Couldn’t stop thinking about you, watching you, after that day. Was like torture - you there, just out of reach; thought I’d missed my chance.” 

Greg captured his lips again, ravenous for John’s mouth that said such lovely things. He tugged at John’s biceps; encouraging him to swing around, over onto Greg’s lap, where he could put his arms around the strong torso and pull John’s firm chest against his own, swallowing his and John’s moan as they pressed together. His fingers explored the musculature hidden under John’s shirt, sliding up along strong shoulders, then down to trace over solid pectorals, feeling the buds of nipples pebbled behind the shirt fabric. He teased them lightly with his fingers, loving the way John’s breath hitched in his ear as he did so. He bucked his hips up under John’s weight, wanting more friction than the position offered. “John, take me to bed,” he growled, his voice deep with want, “please, John, will you?” 

John pulled his head up from where he was nuzzling at earlobe and jaw to look Greg straight in the eye. His smile, and the dark chuckle that accompanied it, were positively sinful. “Oh, I most certainly wi-”

A muffled cry echoed down the hallway from Rosie’s room and they both froze, ears straining to hear if the baby had actually woken, or merely squawked the one time. The cry came again, and rose in volume; John dropped his head to Greg’s shoulder as they both groaned. John slid his hands over Greg’s chest, frustration evident in his reluctance to stop touching the DI and the way his agile fingers kept slipping under the placket of his shirt to catch little brushes of skin between the buttons. “Oh god, I am so sorry, Greg. Sometimes she has the worst timing.” 

“Not to worry,” Greg said with passable good humor, and slid his hands down John’s back until he was cupping both rounded cheeks of John’s arse, giving them a lusty squeeze through the denim. “Had to get that in, I’d been waiting for it,” he quipped, then dumped John over to one side and stood to adjust himself in his trousers so his erection wouldn’t be so obvious, or so uncomfortable. He leaned over to give John a filthy kiss, all tongue and wet lips, grinning at John’s undignified whine as he pulled back. “I’ll get her; hopefully she won’t have woken Mrs. Hudson yet.”    

 “I’m afraid she has, actually,” a female voice said, “I’ve got the monitor in the guest room, you know.” Mrs. Hudson leaned against the doorway in her flowered dressing gown and fuzzy slippers, sleepily grinning at the two men. “If you want to get her, inspector, I could make some tea for us? John, you have chamomile, don't you?”

John had yet to pull his eyes from Greg’s face, and answered absently, “yes, it's in the cupboard with the rest. Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” 

“Yes, thanks, Mrs. Hudson,” Greg agreed, “and please, call me Greg.” He shot her his best impish smile after winking at John and turning to head off to Rosie’s room. “I mean, we should be friends if I'm ever gonna get a ride in your lovely car.” 

Her merry laughter followed him down the hall.

Greg changed Rosie, who was again wet, with a rueful smile at what had happened the last time he had a nighttime change with her. Things were much improved, if the last half hour was any measure, he thought. “I can’t be mad at you, Rosie, but you could have chosen a better time to wake up,” he whispered into her wispy curls as the girl squirmed against his shoulder, fresh jammies smelling of a mildly citrusy detergent. She made a gurgling, sighing sound, then scrunched her tiny version of John’s nose at him in a huge yawn. He chuckled and went to lay her back in her cot, rubbing a rough palm over her little back as she settled back into sleep. “G’night, sweetheart.” he whispered, and left the room.

Arriving in the sitting room, he found Mrs. Hudson and John genteelly sipping fragrant chamomile tea. Mrs. Hudson’s eyes were sparkling, and John’s face looked decidedly nonplussed; Greg suspected he did not want to know what they had been talking about while he was gone, especially when the dear lady turned a cheeky smile his way and rose from her place on the couch. “I’ll just take my tea back to bed, then. You boys behave!” With a swish of floral print, she was off down the hall to the guest room. The door shut with a decided click.

Greg flopped down on the couch next to John, rubbing both hands over his face. In the darkness behind his palms, he heard John break into a slightly hysterical laugh. “I don’t think I’ve been caught snogging in about thirty years,” John snickered. “It’s just as bad as I remember.” 

Greg dissolved into breathy chuckles of his own. “Yeah,” he acknowledged, lolling his head over on the cushion so he could gaze at John smugly.

“And you didn’t have to face Mrs. Hudson after! She winked at me no less than four times!” John’s chuckles took on an aggrieved tone. “She told me she was happy for me, and that since Sherlock wasn’t interested, she was glad I’d found someone with ‘soulful brown eyes and an arse you want to sink your teeth into!’”

Greg’s laughter abruptly cut off in horrified mortification. “Oh God, no she didn’t, did she?” He blushed scarlet. “I may never be able to look her in the eye again.”

John’s hand crept into his own, curling around to grasp firmly. “I’m afraid she did. But she also said she’d let us take the car for a weekend away sometime, so I think she approves.” 

“Thank God for small favors,” Greg intoned, still blushing. He squeezed John’s hand. “I have to say, though, that the mood has been thoroughly killed for me.” 

John smiled wryly. “Yeah, adrenaline crash and all that are catching up with me, too.” He pulled Greg’s hand onto his thigh, so he could stroke the stumpy fingers with both of his own. “You’d be welcome to stay...” he peered at Greg from under his eyebrows, an uncertain hopefulness in his eyes. 

Greg leaned forward and kissed John’s forehead gently. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think I should go home.” John nodded, a wistful turn to his smile. “I want to keep on with what we started, John, I really,  _ really _ do...” He sighed, then licked his lips, “but not as an afterthought. It’s too important - you’re too important - to not take our time. Alright?”

John snorted, “Yeah, ‘course. Yeah.” He squeezed Greg’s hand, then leaned over to put his head on Greg’s shoulder as he had done when everything had changed for them. After a moment he blew out a long sigh and tipped his head up to stare Greg cheekily in the eye, “I’d just hoped I might get a leg over with a silver fox tonight, is all.” 

Greg couldn’t help himself, he kissed that smug look right off John’s face, turning to press his friend into the cushions of the sofa until the man melted against them and scrabbled at his shoulders under the onslaught of soft lips sliding and pulling, bright white teeth nipping at jaw and throat, tongue exploring and tasting what seemed like every inch of John’s heated mouth. John emitted a rumbling whine, which Greg couldn’t help but find incredibly sexy.  When he felt his point was made, Greg pulled back and savored the picture of breathless, mussed John beneath him, wiping the back of his hand across the moisture on his lips and hearing the stubble rasp on his chin.

“Good things come to those who wait, Doctor. Can I take you to dinner on Friday night?” he growled. “Cases notwithstanding, of course.” 

John gazed at him for a moment longer as he collected his faculties, then shook himself as they both stood up to head for the door. “Christ, yes.” 

It took them a bit longer to actually get Greg out to his car, each dipping or stretching for another kiss before letting the night end. When the door shut behind him, Greg stood on the stoop for a moment, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. John's flavor lingered on his lips and his fingers and toes tingled; he felt vibrantly alive and awash with wonder at what John had said and done. With a whooshing breath Greg stepped off to his car, fighting the urge to turn back around and ravish the man he had left behind the door. Friday couldn't arrive soon enough.  


	8. Chapter 8

As it happened, Friday night wasn’t soon enough. The arse-end of 4 AM on Friday morning found Greg standing at the front door of a squat block of flats in Islington, waiting for John and Sherlock. The corpse discovered by the house cleaner in a top floor apartment had been identified as steady arm-candy for a drug supplier with a particularly nasty reputation. They had been reported as having a screaming fight in front of a roomful of witnesses two nights ago. However this body didn’t exhibit any of the telltale marks that would indicate a hit, whether from her lover as punishment, or as retaliation from a competitor. The luxurious flat did not belong to the dead woman, and had been part of the gentrification of the neighborhood some five years ago. The bloke who the flat was leased to had been out of the country for the last week.

A black cab pulled up and Sherlock unfolded from the back, striding up to the door and raising an eloquent eyebrow as if to say ‘begin.’ John finished paying the cabbie and jogged to catch up, flashing a lovely wide smile Greg’s way, then schooling his features to a more professional expression as they entered the building. Greg felt like he was getting away with something as he pressed a hand to John’s trim waist to usher him through the door, and relished the warm squeeze on a shoulder he received as John passed.

Greg acquainted them with the details as they headed to the lifts, hitting the button for the fourth floor and then turning his eyes up to the numbers indicating the floor they were on. He was hyper-aware of John standing behind him; it was like the short hairs on his neck were standing up and reaching for the solid presence at his back. Sherlock peppered him with questions and berated him when his answers strayed too close to conjecture, as usual. Greg reminded himself this was why he’d taken to meeting Sherlock at crime scenes in person; no one else on his team could keep from trying to beat the acerbic detective at his own game and then would inevitably be put out when he ridiculed them for it. Easier on everyone if Greg took the task and bit his tongue. Or, today apparently, thought about other things he wished he was doing with his tongue as a wisp of John’s spicy herbal scent wafted by when he passed Greg on his way out of the lift.

Greg breathed deep and flashed back to the feel of John’s lips against his as he pulled the scent from its source only a few nights ago. His eyes dropped half-lidded in his distracted state and he startled when the doors to the lift started to close with a ding. A sturdy hand reached back to stop the closing, and as the doors slid apart again, Greg sheepishly looked into John Watson’s eyes. John smirked back, his face full of knowing understanding; he stepped back into the lift and let the doors resume their close. “Sherlock will need us in a minute,” he said mildly, “but I haven’t had a chance to even say hello to you yet.” John looked Greg up and down with a predatory gleam in his eye, then stepped confidently right up to press their bodies together from chest to knees. “Hello, Greg,” he said quietly, grasping at Greg’s lapels, then smoothing them over his chest.

Greg emitted a sound that was a cross between a whimper and a chuckle. “Ha- hello, John,” he said, proud of himself for making any sense whatsoever in this situation. His hands came up, seemingly of their own volition, to clasp the loops on John’s jeans.

The doors binged again and slid open to reveal an intensely irritated Sherlock Holmes. “Lestrade, do you actually want me to look at your crime scene? Perhaps you would care to show me where it is?” he snapped waspishly. “And John, don’t think I didn’t see you slip back into the lift to distract him. I shall be forced to take extremely unpleasant steps if your infatuation gets in the way of the work.” He glared at them a moment more, then spun with a flare of his greatcoat and strode down the hallway toward the open flat door and the crime scene tape.

“Infatuation, then, eh, Watson?” Greg made his fingers release John’s belt loops, and removed his hands with a stroke down John’s hips and the sides of his firm arse.

“You heard the man,” John said seriously, also stepping back with a lingering pass of his hands down Greg’s chest. “God, I hope this case wraps up quick - I have plans for you tonight, Inspector.”

Greg’s knees went a little weak at the dark confidence in John’s tone, and he swayed toward John with a whimper; then through mighty force of will, translated that momentum into forward motion out of the lift and down the hallway toward where he could hear Sherlock’s agitated baritone calling his name. Jesus, it was going to be a long day.

~~oOo~~

Once Greg got his mind firmly back to business, it was mostly easy to stay there, especially with Sherlock’s shrewd gaze dissecting almost every move he and John made in each other’s presence. Greg had to hand it to Sherlock, he was king of the cockblock; even going so far as to snag John by the elbow when Greg stepped out to the next building for a piss, ensuring his friend couldn’t follow for some unauthorized canoodling.

It backfired on him a little later though, when Greg was stood near the wall while Sherlock stalked in a circle around the damp patch on the carpet where the body had been found with what appeared to be a glass of plain water fallen from her hand. Sherlock had chased all of the other Yarders out of the room, and John had excused himself for his own turn at the necessary. The silence was broken by Greg’s stomach rumbling, loudly. Sherlock’s head snapped up at the unexpected sound and he pinned Greg with an accusatory stare. Greg shrugged apologetically and checked his watch; half one already? No wonder, he hadn’t eaten in about nine hours. Quiet descended again and Sherlock resumed his path, hands pressed together, index fingers tapping against his lower lip as he pondered and seemed to mutter to himself.

Greg’s stomach emitted a sound like an old dog groaning in its sleep, and he looked down at himself in chagrin. Had that come from him? Crikey. He looked up into the irate eyes of his Consulting Detective, and sheepishly cracked a smile as if to say ‘yeah, sorry, that was me.’

“Out.” Sherlock snapped, long arm pointing toward the door. “Return when you’re fed. You’re no use to me like this.”

Greg didn’t hesitate to comply; his patience as Sherlock’s sounding board had been spent hours ago. He stepped out of the room, only to meet John coming back up the hallway; he made frantic shushing motions and tugged him into another bedroom off the hall, closing the door as stealthily as he could manage. When he straightened from carefully releasing the doorknob, he turned to see a bemused John Watson standing only a few feet away. Greg’s shoulders sagged with a release of tension and he grinned and scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I’ve been instructed to ‘return when I’m fed,’” he mimicked Sherlock’s imperious tones, “which means I’m skiving off for half an hour. Come with?”

John grinned his lopsided, devilish smile. “In a minute, maybe,” he stepped forward, eyes alight with mischievous avarice. “I am hungry, after all.” John’s strong fingers stroked up into the silver strands Greg had just mussed, combing it back into a semblance of order and sending shivers across Greg’s scalp and down his spine. He couldn’t look away from John’s deep blue eyes, but his pulse was thumping madly in his chest at how near John was, how good his fingers felt. His arms came up around John’s back and pulled him closer, pressing their bodies together all down their fronts. He said nothing, just rumbled deep in his throat as he leaned in to rub his nose against John’s, teasing, daring him.

John boldly captured Greg’s mouth with a skillful twist of his blond head, pressing himself more fully against Greg and using the fingers in his hair to hold Greg’s head exactly where he wanted it. Greg’s breath blew out through his nose, gusting across John’s cheek and ear, carrying his quiet moan out into the room. He felt a shiver ripple through John’s frame and brought a hand up to stroke the thin skin beneath John’s ear, earning himself a nipping kiss to his lower lip and another delightful shudder from the man in his arms.

“Like that, do you?” he murmured as he took a breath, preparatory to following his fingers with his tongue; and suddenly realized he was clinched with John... in a room that was part of his crime scene. He blinked, and took a deep breath, then dropped his head to John’s shoulder. “Shit,” he groaned, then stepped back. “You are too bloody tempting, goddammit. But I can’t do this, here, now.” He looked at John with earnest appeal. “It’s a murder scene, y’see.”

John sobered immediately, shaking his head and scratching at an eyebrow in dismay. “Christ, Greg, of course. I’m sorry-” he started, but Greg interrupted.

“No, don’t be,” he said firmly, “we’re both wound up with waiting, and being alone with you...” he mutely indicated the whole John package in front of him. “It takes a stronger man than me to ignore it.”

“A stronger man than me, too, Greg. I mean look at you, all rumpled and...” he growled, that sly greedy glint back in his eye. “Christ, let’s get out of here. Where did you plan to get something to eat?” John firmed his upper lip and headed for the door, his brisk manner not entirely covering the high color on his cheeks.    

“Somebody usually sets up a table of sandwiches somewhere nearby, nothing fancy, but when there’s this many on a scene it’s pretty much necessary,” Greg said as he ambled toward the front door of the flat, willing his erection to leave him in peace before he ran into a subordinate. When they stepped out into the hall, it was clear another flat a few doors down had been opened up for police use, as uniformed officers and forensic techs hurried back and forth from the crime scene to this flat. He and John followed their noses to the kitchen, where a platter of bland sandwiches, some doughnuts and a bowl of bananas and apples crowded an urn of coffee and another of hot water with a box of generic tea bags beside it on a folding table. The flat was otherwise empty of furnishings, so they ate their sandwiches leaning together against the wall of the kitchen, sipping terrible coffee and communicating their wish to be done with this case and on to the evening with wry looks and nudges of their shoulders.

When they were done, John grabbed a banana and put it in his pocket in preparation of returning to Sherlock. Just as Greg was about to open his mouth, John caught his eye and quipped, “yes, I’m happy to see you.” He put a hand in his jeans pocket and adjusted the telltale shape there... then pulled the banana out of the jacket pocket on the other side. Greg gaped as John stepped close to pass by on his way back to the scene and said quietly, for Greg’s ears alone. “Any fruit in your pocket? Or what’s your excuse?” He breezed by, chuckling evilly.

Greg stood frozen for another minute, then hurried after John back to the crime scene.

He arrived just in time to see John brandishing the banana at his former flatmate, demanding the man have something to eat. “Your blood sugar will be too low to sustain that brain of yours if you don’t eat something today, Sherlock, and this fruit is light and easy. You’ll not even notice you’ve eaten once you’re done, and you’ll be better for it.”

Sherlock had halted in his repetitive pacing, his face beginning to take on the ecstatic, ‘pieces-falling-into-place’ excitement that usually resulted in a break in whatever case they had in front of them. Greg held his breath, hoping for an epiphany. “John,” Sherlock said, “give me that banana - I think I know how she was killed.” He took the fruit, peeled back the yellow skin, and devoured the whole thing in three enormous bites. “We have to examine the body,” he said through the mouthful, still somehow perfectly understandable. “And - Lestrade,” he whirled to Greg, “were there any needles, or medical paraphernalia in the bathroom?”

“Er, yeah, I think so. A sharps container, and a few packaged needles. Really small ones. No syringes anywhere, though.”

“I’ll need to see those, too.” Sherlock demanded. “Are they still here? We’ll need to bring them to Bart’s for testing after I’ve seen the body again.”

~~oOo~~

After collecting the medical evidence, the three adjourned to Bart’s, where Molly had their victim laid out and waiting. Sherlock took a moment to greet Molly and thank her for her work, before snapping on his gloves and losing himself in an intense scrutiny of the corpse, nose only centimeters away from her navel, magnifier in hand.

Molly didn’t seem inclined to linger, saying she had some reports to write. Greg noticed her carefully not looking at Sherlock on her way out. After his realization the last time he was at the morgue, his sympathy for Molly had only grown, and he hoped she’d find a way to move on. He glanced at John as the doors swung shut behind her departing form, and they exchanged a look of shared understanding. John smiled faintly.

Sherlock had moved onto the woman’s thighs, making satisfied hums and huffs as he examined every inch of skin on each side. “Yes, mm-hmm, yes!” he crowed.

“What, Sherlock?” Greg asked, “Give us a hint, at least?”

Sherlock said nothing, merely continued his inspection of her skin; now tipping the body to look at the side of her buttock.

“Sherlock, what have you got for us,” John chimed in. He had a glimmer in his eyes that meant he had an idea what Sherlock was about; Greg was merely mystified and his expression reflected it. John smiled at him again, more widely this time.

“Good things come to those who wait, Doctor.” Sherlock looked up briefly at his friend, then over to Greg. “Have patience, Lestrade. I’m almost finished here, and then I’ll look at her effects.”

Greg was startled by Sherlock’s use of the exact phrase he had left John with the other night, and shot the man a look. John’s eyebrows reflected his surprise, and Greg chalked it up to luck. It was no help to his libido, though, which reminded him fervently that in a mere few hours he was supposed to have those good things, since he had waited all week for them. He blew out a sigh and scrubbed his hands through his spiky silver hair. He could use a little air.

“I’m off to the canteen to get a coffee. You want anything?” he asked to no one in particular.

“Tea would be great, thanks. Milk, no sugar.” John said.

“None for me,” Sherlock said, giving John a hard stare that easily said ‘you will remain HERE.’

John rolled his eyes and shrugged. Greg had to chuckle. Such was the price of genius; some time to clear his head of John wouldn’t go amiss, either. He headed out into the hall.  

~~oOo~~

When he returned, John and Sherlock were looking over a collection of seemingly unlikely items. The victim’s purse lay on a lab bench, with the contents spread out. Greg spotted lipstick, a package of antacids, a condom - still in the wrapper, thank Christ - a few pound coins, a clear plastic vial with some tiny writing on it, and a thick, chunky pen that John was inspecting closely, his gloved hands holding it up to the light and shaking it.

“It’s still got more than half of the liquid inside,” he said, “but it’s been used at least twice. There aren’t any other cartridges in the purse besides that empty one, are there? Or in the bins at the flat?”

Sherlock consulted a list, presumably of the contents of the bins in the flat; Greg had had it emailed over as soon as his scene techs had finished with them. “Nnnnope,” Sherlock quipped, popping the consonant sound of the negative with suppressed impatience. He clearly was desperate to get his hands on the object. John relinquished it once he had inspected it thoroughly, and Sherlock pounced: snatching the tube and hustling over to the mass spectrometer in the corner to prepare specimens of the fluid inside.

John smiled as he stripped off the gloves, brushing his hands together to shake off the worst of the powder left on them. He took his tea from Greg with a smile and a lingering stroke of his fingers along Greg’s wrist, obviously relishing the shiver that traveled up Greg’s arm all the way to the roots of his silver hair. He turned back to watch Sherlock’s preparations, leaning firmly against Greg’s shoulder and blowing on his tea. “So,” he said, chancing a sip, “mm, just right,” he nudged Greg with his elbow, careful not to slop his beverage. “We think we’ve got a cause of death. Acute hyperglycemia.”

Greg grunted and gave him his best ‘in English, please?’ frown. John chuckled and went on. “She was diabetic, and her insulin dropped while her glucose rose drastically. Sherlock and I could smell the sweetish odor on her lips once we got here, from ketoacidosis, and best guess is she fell into a diabetic coma late last night and died after a few hours. The question is, why? That thing Sherlock is testing is an insulin pen - she’s got signs of regular injections on her thighs and abdomen, consistent with diabetic insulin management. She should have been testing her blood and giving herself injections to keep the glucose in line.”

“And she would have,” interjected Sherlock, “if this actually contained any insulin. Instead, it adds insult to injury. Care to guess what’s in it, John?” The man was grinning like a maniac; sometimes Greg agreed with Mrs. Hudson - it wasn’t decent.

John went still beside Greg as he turned over the possibilities. “Sugar solution? Straight glucose?”

Sherlock waggled his eyebrows in a most unseemly way, almost vibrating with glee. He shook his head in the negative, and John went even more still.

“Oh, no, really? Glucagon?” Sherlock uttered a cry of triumph and actually clapped his hands together, eyes shining. John shook his head in disbelief, stifling a smile of his own. Greg was abruptly reminded that John had an exceptionally macabre sense of humor, one of the reasons he and Sherlock were such good friends.

“Care to let us non-doctor, non-geniuses into the joke?” he said gruffly. Not that he felt left out, no, of course not.

“Yeah, right, see, glucagon does the opposite of insulin. Insulin tells the body to filter glucose out of the bloodstream; glucagon tells it to dump stored sugar from your fat cells back into the blood -”

“And that’s why, Lestrade, this was murder, not an accident. She was monitoring her blood sugar, and when it started to rise, she injected herself with what she thought would bring it back down. Instead, she took doses of the hormone that increases blood sugar, accelerating the problem. No wonder she went so quickly. It’s really quite elegant, it might easily have been ruled an accidental death due to diabetes complications.”

“Alright, who did it?” Greg asked. “And why didn’t they collect the pen-thingy?”

Sherlock snorted inelegantly. “The drug lord boyfriend. At least, he’s implicated. The resident of the flat and our victim were lovers, and I expect the boyfriend didn’t appreciate it.”

“And, how’s that work, then?”

“He wouldn’t have had to be there,” John chimed in, nodding as it started to come clear to him. “Just to have swapped the insulin pen for one with the wrong hormone. She probably kept one there for emergencies.”

“Exactly, and the drug lord boyfriend would have had plenty of time to have someone break in to make the switch while the lover was out of town. She has a key to the flat in her purse. The boyfriend could provoke a fight, knowing that she’d go to the flat afterward even if the lover was away. She would perhaps have only had whatever was in her purse, and run short of insulin after a day or so. No matter, she has the extra pen with several days’ worth of insulin right there, uses the pen that was in the flat and whoops, runaway sugar imbalance. Accidental death.”   

“Except no one picked up the pen, so why not?”

“The lover was out of the country, and the drug lord probably intended him to be the one to find her; he would be implicated because the false pen would be found in the flat. The drug lord didn’t count on the lover being delayed beyond the cleaner’s usual visit.”

John was nodding his head, an expression of impressed amazement on his face. “That’s brilliant. How will we prove it?”

Sherlock grinned at his friend, clearly pleased at the praise. “I’ll have to run more tests on the contents of the pen to see if there’s any characteristic that might be unique to our suspect. He supplies plenty of illegal drugs to the dealers of London; it shouldn’t be that hard for him to get his hands on this hormone. I’ll also call in a few favors with some petty criminals I know who are loosely associated with his organization; see if I can find out who he paid to plant the pen. I expect I’ll have developments to report tomorrow morning.”

Greg spluttered “Tomorrow? Why so long?”

Sherlock aimed a disgruntled look at him. “Do you know how long a full chemical analysis of a mixed solution takes? Tomorrow is sooner than any of your inept minions back at the Yard could get results. Now, off with you, I’ll text when I need you again.” He spun back to the mass spectrometer, gathering supplies as he went, and seemed to dismiss both Greg and John from his mind.

John watched his friend with raised eyebrows for a long moment, until it became clear that they were no longer needed, or even acknowledged, by the tall form crouched over the lab bench like a well-dressed vulture. He snorted a chuckle and scratched his fingers through his hair, leaving it appealingly tousled. Greg grinned back, and together they turned to leave the lab.

The door swung shut behind them with an echoing clunk in the deserted hallway, and the two men ambled along toward the stairwell. “What’s the time, anyway?” John muttered, pulling out his phone to check, and then letting out a groan. “Oh, Bloody, buggering hell! Gah!” John looked up at Greg with a saddened face that could give plenty of adorable puppies a run for their money.

Greg tilted his head as he eyed John inquiringly. “Something wrong?”

“Well, it’s this case. Sherlock was going to babysit for me tonight, so we could - you know - go out.”

“And now he can’t,” Greg prompted.

“And now he can’t,” John agreed. “And he was my last hope. Mrs. Hudson’s at her sister’s, Molly’s working tonight, and the other two I usually ask are in the same play and have a dressed rehearsal. God, Greg, I’m so sorry, I think I’ll have to take a rain check on our date.” His shoulders slumped as the words tumbled out. “Bugger,” he muttered under his breath, head hung low.

Greg thought for a moment; the solution seemed obvious to him. “Well, what about me?” he asked.

John blinked and looked up at Greg though long, pale eyelashes. “Kind of defeats the purpose of getting a free night to go out on a date, if my date is home with my child, yeah?” His forehead wrinkled with another puppy-caliber look of puzzlement.

“Who said anything about staying home? Let’s take her to dinner with us.” Greg replied easily.

“Really? You wouldn’t mind?” John’s look of surprise and relief warmed Greg’s heart. He pulled the ridiculous man in for a hug.

“The point of this date was getting to spend time with you, John. And Rosie’s small enough that bringing her along would be no trouble at all. I’d love it.”

John scrutinized his face for a moment, then a sunny smile broke out and he tipped up on his toes to kiss Greg sweetly, no care taken that they were stood in the middle of the corridor at Bart’s. “Come on then, let’s go get her.”


	9. Chapter 9

Rosie solemnly accepted a smallish bite of mash from the spoon Greg held out to her; soft rosebud lips smacking as she moved the food around in her mouth. Greg murmured to her, “there’s a girl, how’s that? Have you never had mashed potatoes before?” He grinned at her expression of surprised enjoyment and bent his head to scoop up another bite. A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned to see John, skin golden and eyes shining in the light of the candle on the table between them, watching Greg feed his daughter with every sign of contentment. Greg unaccountably blushed, and somewhat defensively said “what?”

John smiled and shook his head, dropping his gaze back to his plate. Greg snorted amiably and returned to his task, fishing a soft carrot from his shepherd’s pie onto his bread plate and setting to mashing it with his fork. A spoonful of bright green spinach-mushroom risotto landed next to it; John’s contribution from his own dinner, minus the chunks of mushrooms. Greg scooped that up next, chuckling when the vibrantly-colored spoonful made the girl’s eyes widen. She accepted it dubiously, but again seemed surprised at the flavors and textures, working her tongue and jaw excitedly. She emitted a high-pitched squeal and smacked a little hand loudly against the table, mouth opening in anticipation of the next bite. Greg hurriedly fed her more risotto, then looked sheepishly around to see if the commotion had upset other patrons of the mid-range restaurant they had chosen. No one seemed to have noticed them, except one older couple who smiled at him indulgently.

John took pity on him after a few minutes, taking the spoon and feeding Rosie more carrot, mash and risotto so Greg could get in a few bites of his dish before it went cold. As her hunger tapered off, she began to be less interested in the spoonfuls coming her way. John produced a small container full of o-shaped cereal, and scattered a few pieces in front of his daughter, who became absorbed in fiddling with them, occasionally conveying one to her mouth.

Conversation flowed easily between the two adults, John and Greg chatting about the case and Sherlock, football and the schools in John’s neighborhood. It was never too early to think about schooling, in Greg’s opinion; and with John for a parent, and even moreso, Uncle Sherlock as godfather, Rosie was sure to be smart as a whip and would need an environment where she would be challenged. Maybe Mycroft could arrange something.

He was about to bring it up when a presence arrived at the table. It was the older couple who had smiled at Greg earlier. The woman, elegantly dressed in a navy dress and pearls, leaned down to look Rosie in the face and said “hello to you, my dear. Are you enjoying this fancy dinner with your daddies?” She smiled widely, delighted, when Rosie cooed and burbled at her, then addressed Greg and John. “Oh, she’s a charmer, right enough. You three remind me of our son and his husband, raising our grandson off in Sussex; so I couldn’t help but stop to say hello. You’re doing a lovely job with her.” Her husband nodded earnestly behind her, also smiling.

Greg blushed again as John thanked the couple, standing to shake hands with the kind lady and her husband and accept their best wishes. Greg was too chagrined to do the same, so he merely nodded and smiled from his chair. John sat down again as the couple headed for the door, staring wide-eyed at Greg, lips pressed together to hold back laughter. Greg rubbed a hand over his face and blew out an explosive breath, hearing John’s telltale giggle burst out across the table.

Greg aimed a wry eyebrow at his date; John was lovely in this light - cheeks pink, eyes shining and wreathed with laugh lines. Greg felt warm, his belly simmering with banked desire. “Something funny?”   

“Just this. Just... us, you, Rosie, this whole thing. Apparently, I have been a gay man ever since I met Sherlock, and only now am I realizing it; while the whole bloody world has been assuming I’m shagging any man I have dinner with. It’s kind of - yeah, hilarious. Nothing further from the truth, and it’s bloody hilarious!” John face-palmed dramatically.

“Weellll... if you’d like to get a little closer to the truth, John, we could skip dessert,” Greg deadpanned, then finished the last bites of his dinner with lascivious intent.

John went quiet as his eyes tracked Greg’s spoon from plate to mouth, and his tongue slipped out to wet his lower lip. “Erm, yeah, maybe we could have dessert... back at mine?”

Greg raised a hand to their server across the room, miming the universal signal for ‘check, please.’

~~oOo~~

His knee wouldn’t stop bouncing. Even when he pushed his hand down on it, it stopped for about half a minute, then started up again. Down the hall, Greg could hear John’s muffled tenor, rising and falling musically as he readied Rosie for bed, and it made his insides flutter. Christ, he was nervous. Horny and nervous. After a bit more than fifty years on the planet, he was nervous about getting together with his crush, how’s that for a turn up? He leaned back against the sofa and pressed his hands against his eyes, trying to relax. Deep breaths whooshed between his fingers and his shoulders dropped a bit. He pressed a little harder; yeah, okay, better.

A sudden weight landed across his thighs and he dropped his hands to find John’s deep blue eyes gazing intently into his own. “Hello,” John said quietly, “she’s finally gone down to sleep - she’s worn out, the little monkey; but I can’t say I’m tired, myself.”

Greg sucked in an overdue breath. “No, nor I,” he whispered.

John’s ‘good’ was whispered against his skin as John leaned in to mouth at his neck. Greg’s moan was more breath than sound, but heartfelt all the same; he raised his hands to John’s face to encourage him up for a kiss. When their lips met, all the restraint, the waiting, the wanting they had kept inside all week made itself plain. Their tongues met and swirled, sparring more than tasting; John’s hands slid up Greg’s neck and into the silvery strands at his nape, then tugged as his fingers curled tightly. Greg’s groan was swallowed up in John’s graveled mumbling, words spoken into Greg’s ear or delivered to his skin as John bit his way along Greg’s square jaw. “You gorgeous thing,” he murmured, “want you, make you feel so good. Dreamed of you this week, having you...” sweet words were punctuated by fierce nips and sucking bites, leaving marks that would show in the mirror the next day, Greg was sure. It thrilled him.

“Bed,” Greg gasped, clutching at the muscles in John’s shoulders, then wriggled under John’s weight, trying to get up. “John, _please_.”

John abruptly hopped up to his feet and held out a hand. “Yes, bed. Now.” His smile was wicked and focused, his eyes dark and glinting in the low light. “Leave your coat there, and your shoes. There’ll be no getting away from me tonight, Inspector.” He suited word to action; toeing off his shoes, careless of where they ended up. He helped Greg take his coat off as Greg stepped out of his brogues, humming appreciatively as his hands skimmed down Greg’s biceps. John took Greg’s hand and led him along the hallway to his room.

Greg hardly registered the walk; his awareness was centered on the heat of John’s hand in his, the glimmer of John’s teeth as he smiled, and the pounding of his own pulse in his chest. He was dizzy with wanting John. They passed through the doorway, and with a sudden yank, he fell forward against John’s strong body. John kept hold of Greg’s hand, wrapping the arm around his waist and firmly laying it against the swell of his rump.

“I seem to remember you had thought about getting a handful of me, hmm?” he said slyly. “An arse man, are you, then?” His hands slid up from Greg’s waist to massage at his pecs, then slid back down his arms again, stopping to squeeze at the rounded swells of Greg’s biceps. “I enjoy a solid arm on a fellow, myself.”

Greg sent an inarticulate, silent thanks to his trainer who insisted on back and arms work twice a week, then used the arms in question to squeeze lustily at the rounded globes beneath his hands.

John groaned throatily and pressed his hips up against Greg, their height difference resulting in his erection nudging at Greg’s inner thighs. “And your legs, Greg, those strong lovely legs in your boring beige trousers. I’m going to wrap them around my waist, sling them over my shoulders, press them together and slide my prick between them, oh...” John trailed off as he ground himself against Greg, who could only whimper as he answered in kind, undulating his hardness into the relative softness of John’s lean belly.

Words seemed to be beyond Greg at the moment, but he reluctantly released his grasp to begin unbuttoning John’s dress shirt, mouthing at every inch of honeyed skin as it was bared. John’s shirt slid down his arms to catch at the wrists, and John stepped back a pace to shake his hands free. The pause brought Greg somewhat to his senses, and he scrabbled at his own buttons; suddenly too impatient to have his skin against John’s to allow for a teasing reveal. “John,” he rumbled, “trousers off. On the bed.”

John’s eyes widened and he blew out a delighted, grinning breath; then efficiently stripped himself of belt, socks, and trousers. He climbed onto the bed, and leaned against the pillows at the headboard, stroking lightly along the solid length hidden behind pale grey boxer briefs; his eyes never leaving the increasingly exposed form of his lover.  

Greg’s skin pebbled with goosebumps as he stripped, though the room was not the slightest bit chilly; he felt John’s gaze as if it had physical substance while it swept over him. He paid John the same attention, moving his eyes from toes to blond head and slowly back again “Oh, yes, Greg,” John said quietly, “come get me.”

Something possessive and feral bubbled up from the depths of his soul at that moment; Greg knew he was viewed by most as an amiable bloke, with puppy-dog eyes and a ready smile. But just then, it was clear the puppy was the son of wolves, and a smile was still a showing of the teeth. Greg stalked up the bed, moving on hands and knees, never taking his eyes from John’s. He saw when John’s breathing sped up, the way John’s fingers curled and uncurled against the coverlet, the tension coiling in John’s limbs and torso as he came nearer.

Greg reached John’s outspread legs, and bent to mouth at the knob of an ankle, then follow his way up that leg to the inside of a knee, tasting the skin over tight-stretched hamstrings and hearing John’s breathless gasp as it twitched. “John, you’re fucking delicious, you are.” He moved higher, his tongue poking out to taste as he went, until he was poised over John’s tented crotch like a lion on its kill. He stared up at John from under his brows, then closed his eyes and _inhaled_ , right from the source. His outgoing breath blew heated air over John’s clothed erection, and Greg savored the groan his lover let out at the sensation.

Abruptly he surged up the rest of John’s body, straddling his hips and grinding his own erection against John’s. “Want you right now, John. Can I have you?” He thrust himself savagely against John’s body, pulling another groan from John.

“Yes-” John’s strangled assent was swallowed in the fierce kiss that followed; at first, Greg lead, plundering John’s mouth and pressing his bare chest against John’s; but after a moment John gave as good as he’d got - tangling his tongue with Greg’s, and scratching nails lightly down Greg’s back, around his ribs to tease at his nipples, then tweaking them firmly and smirking at Greg’s stifled grunt.

Teasing became groping became lustful, gleeful wrestling, until with a restrained shout, John flipped Greg onto his back and pinned him with hands above his head, muscled chest compressing his rib cage and legs covering Greg’s thighs, keeping him immobile. “Alright!” John barked into Greg’s face, chest heaving, “now, are you going to behave?” Greg squirmed for a moment, then settled gingerly into John’s pin, panting and grinning when he found himself unable to dislodge the hard body. John forestalled a comment that was obviously going to be snarky; “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Greg’s bold gaze held John’s for a moment, then his eyelids dropped to half-cover his warm brown eyes and he truly relaxed under his lover’s weight. “Yeah, alright,” he said.

John held him there for a moment more, then slid down Greg’s body to his pants, tonguing along the elastic below his navel. “What have we here?” John smirked, a naughty twinkle in his eye.

Greg heaved himself up to his elbows to glower at John’s impish grin. “I swear to Christ, John, if you say ‘what’s all this, then,’ I will have to kill you. There will be no Constable Bobby role-play in my bed.”

John stared at him for a beat, then hung his head, laughing into Greg’s belly while Greg eyed him sternly and bit back his own smile. “Agreed,” John wheezed. After catching his breath, he went on, “as long as we don’t play ‘Doctor’ either.” John’s face hardened and he bit down sharply on the soft flesh surrounding Greg’s navel, then looked up again. “Captain Watson is on the table, however. I’ve got my fatigues around here somewhere.”    

Greg’s eyes widened, and he flopped back down, his mind filling with images of John in uniform, manhandling him, perhaps disciplining him - the sliding of his pants down his legs and off came as a surprise, so far had that idea sidetracked him. He slammed back into the moment with a vengance the next second, as John’s tongue swirled around the head of his prick. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been up close and personal with one of these that wasn’t my own,” John remarked with a wry eyebrow wriggle, “I hope I haven’t forgotten how.”

“Ah,” Greg commented astutely, “Ah, you seem to be on the right track-urgh!” John took the first few inches of Greg’s cock into his mouth, lavishing the shaft with passes of his tongue as he pressed firm lips against it and sucked lightly. His strong hand curled gently around the portion he couldn’t comfortably take just then, and he let his saliva run down to lubricate his hand, moving it in time with the motions of his head. “Oh good god, John, so good - a little tighter, your hand, oh, yesss, suck a little harder. Perfect, like that, oh my god, so good.”

Greg babbled a stream of consciousness filled with praise for John’s work; he couldn’t remember ever having had so skillful a blow job before. He’d always been somewhat vocal in bed, but not usually so verbal; _must be the quality of my partner,_ he thought. And then actual words failed him as John slurped off his cock to take each of his testicles in that hot mouth, one and then the other and then each again, rolling and gently suckling them while his nimble hand continued its ministrations on his aching prick.

A gust of cool air unexpectedly wafted across Greg’s saliva-wet bits, making him shiver and groan. John was heaving himself over to scrabble in the bedside table, coming up triumphantly with a small, clear bottle in one hand. “Now, where were we?” he asked, looking at the delectable picture his desperate, panting lover presented. He nodded sagely and his smile was utterly depraved as he licked his lips with a pink tongue.

He positively dove back to Greg’s prick, eyes alight with greedy anticipation. “I’d like to suck you off, Greg, make you come in my mouth with my fingers in you. Do you want that? Tell me you want that.” Greg’s cock jumped at the words, as if answering John with its enthusiasm.

“Oh, God, yes, please, John! Yes, I want-” his words cut off with a long, breathy groan as John’s mouth returned to his cock, tongue rasping it gently around the head, lips almost kissing as they swept lightly across reddened, velvety flesh, playfully never giving enough pressure to move him toward orgasm. A strong arm held Greg’s hips down as he bucked helplessly, the urge to thrust deeper into the heat and slickness of John’s mouth overcoming his control. Greg widened his legs in mute appeal. “If you’re going to, John, please, get on with it, please!”

John’s quiet chuckle was lost in the snapping of a cap and the vaguely flatulent noise of a substance being squirted from a bottle that was more than half gone. He paused a moment for a more honest giggle, while he slicked his first two fingers; “excuse me, I’m sure. I promise it’s not the company.”

Greg lay there panting and trying not to fall into hysterics himself; he was utterly wound up from John’s attentions so far, and the unexpected comedy had tripped him on the run-up to coming, leaving him spinning. He tingled from head to toe; it felt like the hairs on his arms and legs and even his head were standing up. His prick throbbed, the muscles in his thighs were clenched and his balls were drawn tight against his body. He must have made some sort of pitiful sound, as John’s face went from silly to serious in an instant. “Ah, now, you gorgeous thing, don’t fret. I’ll make it all better in a minute.” He leaned down to kiss Greg’s sweaty face, lipping at his cheek and nibbling at an earlobe. “You’re going to feel so good, see? Like this-”

A cool, slippery finger pressed just firmly enough against Greg’s anus, spreading it with lubricant and coaxing the tight pucker to soften and relax. Greg breathed in and out deeply, listening to his lover croon in his ear and feeling his body step back from the jagged edge, just enough. The finger pressed gently, inexorably moving further into Greg’s body in careful stages, being sure that he had relaxed enough to proceed without discomfort. When John was fully inside with one finger, he kissed his way down Greg’s body to growl over his prick. With a practiced move, he twisted his wrist, revolving the digit inside Greg’s passage until it brushed up against the delicate spongy mass hidden there, barely applying the lightest of touches. Greg keened with pent-up arousal and overload of sensation.

“Ah, found it. Like this?” he applied a little more pressure, stroking the organ with the tip of his finger. Greg groaned his pleasure and nodded vehemently. “Good. Don’t want to overdo.” And with that, he took Greg’s penis to the root in his soft, slippery mouth, stroking the internal bud under his finger in time with the swirling of his tongue. Greg blurted a garbled mess of praises and pleas as his hips bucked despite his attempts to control them; his brain seemed to be shorting out with the combined inputs from cock and prostate. His hands twisted in the bedclothes beneath him. He tried to babble a warning to John as his climax roared close, but John merely took him back down and never varied the careful stroking.

Greg’s body went rigid, straining as the pulses of his orgasm swept over him. There was a white noise in his ears, and he felt like his whole consciousness flowed down his spine and out of him as he twitched down John's throat, leaving him floating weightlessly above them both, watching as John pulled off with a wanton slurp and wiped across his mouth with the back of his hand. John leaned forward and as his lips made contact, Greg snapped back to himself enough to kiss his talented lover, whispers of fervent praise tumbling from his lips. “Oh, my God, John, that was indescribable. I haven’t come like that in decades - ever really - so amazing...”

John smiled knowingly, accepting the accolades as his due. “You are lovely when you come, Greg, I almost popped off myself, watching you go.”

“I think I might have died there for a minute. Let me get the feeling back in my hands and legs and I’ll do my best to return the favor.” Greg’s arms flopped gracelessly over John’s waist, awkwardly slipping over heated skin. John pressed his erection firmly against Greg’s hip, rutting with tiny, controlled strokes.

“If it’s alright with you, I’d rather not wait for fine motor control. You look so delicious I need to rub all over you, make you mine. Ok?” As Greg nodded, John reached over for the lubricant where he had dropped it in his earlier haste and squirted a generous amount from the bottle, again with a wet raspberry sound. “Pump bottles for me from now on,” he quipped, quirking an eyebrow at Greg’s debauched body with a heated smirk. “I think I’ll need one if you keep looking at me like that.”

“Get two, and get on me, John. I wanna feel you,” Greg rasped, suddenly desperate to see John come undone. His limbs were more controllable now, and he squeezed John’s naked gluteus with unconcealed enjoyment. “Wanna feel your arse working you against me, hear the noises you make, see your face when you come, John. Do it.”

“Oh, yeah then. Legs together now, crossed at the ankles. Lovely. Nice and straight for me, love.” As he spoke, John efficiently slicked his stiff cock, smearing the bead of fluid at the tip into the lubricant. He wiped his wet hand on Greg’s inner thigh, high up near the crease, and slotted his cockhead snug under Greg’s scrotum, gently moving Greg’s spent penis out of the way. “Greg, my god, you have lovely thighs. So smooth up top, so good.”

Greg was reveling in the feeling of John’s hard body pressing down on him, his rounded buttocks tensing and releasing as he thrust himself between Greg’s thighs. John’s cock was thick and smooth, and just long enough that the head stuttered over his loosened anus with each pass. It was surprisingly sensual for Greg, sending aftershocks up his spine from the pressing on his perineum and the brushes across his sensitive pucker. Despite his recent orgasm, his mind strayed to John taking him more fully, pressing deep inside him. He wanted that. He hoped John did too. “Oh, John, yeah. Come on, next time you’ll be fucking me. Just like this, deep inside. You’ll come in me, won’t you? Mark me inside and out? I’ll be yours then. All yours.”

The words seemed to inflame his lover; John’s strokes sped up and he exhaled with short, sharp “ha!” sounds as he pistoned his hips. Greg was blanketed by the heat of writhing muscles and lightly furred smooth skin. The contact between their bodies was slippery with sweat and John pressed his head against Greg’s shoulder for leverage to push harder, faster. “Gonna - make you - MINE!” he gritted out.    

Abruptly the weight was gone and Greg’s skin tingled with the lack as John heaved himself up onto his knees, feverishly pulling his cock. His face contorted into a grimace of ecstasy, mouth dropping open with his panting shouts. His release burst from him onto Greg’s belly and chest in two - three - strong pulses, yet John hardly slowed; a fourth pulse seemed pulled up from his toes with a groan that shuddered through his whole body, and John fell forward onto his clean hand and knees, then slumped over to lay at Greg’s side.

"Good christ, John, that was the most gorgeous thing I think I have ever seen,” Greg whispered reverently, stroking a hand along John’s heaving chest, still mesmerized by the utter abandon John had shown as he came. “You are a force of fucking nature.” John’s smile appeared like the sun from behind clouds, and he rolled over to snuggle up to Greg’s side.

“I’d say we’re pretty spectacular together, actually.” He sighed with contentment, and a little wistfulness. “I’d almost forgotten what really excellent sex can be like, with fun, and spontenaity, and no need to pretend anything.” He placed a lingering kiss on Greg’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

“John, I’m the one who should be thanking you - you did all the work, and now my legs don’t work right, so I can’t even get you a glass of water!”  

“Don’t want water. I want a cuddle with my silver fox.” John snarked, capturing Greg’s wobbly legs with one of his own and throwing an arm over Greg’s chest to keep him in place. “Give us a kiss.”

Greg couldn’t help but oblige. The kiss was sweet and slow, and accompanied by long caressing sweeps of John’s hands over his abdomen and chest. It took a moment for Greg to realize John was massaging his semen into Greg’s skin. He pulled back and slanted an eyebrow at John, who blushed and ducked his head a bit. “I can be sort of possessive with my lovers,” he admitted, “and I like to leave marks. I don’t let it get out of hand outside the bedroom though. I hope that’s okay?” his soulful eyes beseeched endearingly.

Greg stared down his nose with faux disdain and intoned in his best Mycroft impression. “I think not, Doctor Watson.” John swallowed uncomfortably, then made a face as Greg grinned and let his lover off the hook. “Naw, John, I don’t mind. Just no permanent marks, and keep ‘em under my clothes, yeah? I like knowing how much someone wants me even when I’m not with them, y’know?”

It was John’s turn to oblige, enthusiastically biting and sucking a likely mark at the join of neck and shoulder. “There,” he said with satisfaction when he came up for air. “All right and proper.”

Greg reluctantly untangled his fingers from where they had gripped John’s hair. “Alright then.” He blew out a long, blissful sigh. “I’m so happy this happened, John. You, I mean.”

“Yeah,” John said. Both of them were sliding from post-coital laziness to outright sleepiness, and his voice was slurred with fatigue. “I’m glad I heard you, that night. I hadn’t been with a man in years, but I couldn’t get you out of my head, thought maybe I was imagining it. And then there you were, with Rosie...” he sighed, happiness evident in his whispered words, “you’re perfect for me, for us...” his whisper tapered off as he slipped into sleep, the waking tension he always held in his frame bleeding out into languid softness.

Greg pulled him close and dropped a kiss onto his head, relishing the rosemary-sandalwood-sex-John smell he encountered there. Dear god, but he felt good. He slipped into slumber.

~~oOo~~

It was a mere three hours later that they were awakened by shrill cries in the monitor. “I’ve got this one, John,” Greg said. “My legs are working again.”

John snorted his amusement and burrowed back into his pillow.

He borrowed John’s dressing gown, which was laughably short on him, and ambled down the hallway to collect Rosie. It seemed like some of the best things to happen to him lately were punctuated by nighttime encounters with the little girl. “Hello m’lovey, what is it this time?” With her diaper change accomplished, lullaby crooned, and Watson the younger back to sleep in just a short time, Greg made his way back to John’s room and discovered that tonight was no different.  When he slid back into bed, it was to the warm body of John Watson curling around him, big spoon to his little one, warm toes against his cold ones, sleepy kiss on the nape of his neck. Yeah, perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an epilogue after this. :)


	10. Epilogue: Vignettes

**One month later**

The door swung open violently and hit the wall with a bang! John pushed Greg up against the open door and pulled his mack down off his shoulders, trapping Greg’s arms at his sides while he pawed open the buttons at Greg’s neck.

“If that snip of a girl calls you that one more time in my presence...” John growled, fervently lipping at the skin of Greg’s neck, “I will not be answerable for my actions.”

Greg gasped as John’s mouth pulled and sucked and bit at the tender skin of his throat, knowing John was leaving a mark that would last for days. He could feel John’s hardness against his thigh where denim rutted against khaki, John’s weight pinning him against the wall. Greg, breathless with urgent desire, wriggled against the tangling coat to get his hands anywhere on the firm body pressing against him. His mind filled with the beat of his heart and he breathed John’s name as his lover staked his claim.

A hesitant cough sounded behind them and they both froze, John’s eyes opening wide as he straightened up and turned to look.

Sherlock stood in the hallway in his stockinged feet, eyebrows so high on his forehead they were merging with his curls. “Mrs. Hudson asked me to take her night tonight. Mrs. Turner’s son and daughter-in-law were taking them to a play. Didn't you get my text?” He shifted his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably.

Greg was paralyzed with chagrin, leaning against the door with a purpling love bite on his throat and rapidly deflating trousers. John recovered his cool much more quickly; pulling off Greg and smoothing back his hair, then stepping in front to shield Greg from Sherlock’s penetrating stare.

They all three stood there, no one looking anyone else in the eye, for an embarrassingly long, silent minute.

Sherlock coughed again. “My, er... my shoes are behind the door. If I can just get them I’ll, um... be on my way.”

John and Greg jumped back from the door and from each other, letting the door to John’s flat start to swing shut. Sherlock’s bespoke shoes were flattened against the wall. He bent down to snatch them up and headed back to the sitting room to put them on and collect his coat.

Greg dropped his face into his cupped hands while John dissolved into slightly hysterical giggles.

Sherlock reappeared in the hallway, composure restored with his armor of shoes and coat. “Watson went to sleep about eight, with minimal fuss. She seems not to be bothered by that emerging tooth as of yet.” John nodded briskly, and thanked his friend for watching Rosie, then headed down the hall toward her room. Greg nodded too, eyeing Sherlock somewhat warily as he made his way toward the open door.

Sherlock leaned close and said, _sotto voce_ , “that forensic tech called you ‘DI Silver Fox’ where John could hear it, didn’t she?”

Greg’s eyes widened with mortification. “How could you know that?” he whispered harshly.

“You and John went to that terribly dull Yard drinks do. You’ve not made a point of announcing your relationship at work, though you’re not exactly hiding it, and that ‘snip of a girl’ is still trying to capture your interest. You may want to disabuse her of the notion before John marks his territory more publicly.” His grin was positively evil as he stepped back. “Unless that’s one of your turn-ons?”

He snugged his scarf around his long neck and swaggered out the door, not bothering to pull it closed. “Laterz, Lestrade,” floated back over his shoulder.

 

**One year later**

Greg brought the last box in from his car, thankful that the heavy lifting was finished. Combining his and John’s things in John’s (much nicer) flat was relatively easy, since neither of them was much bothered with having loads of stuff, but the little things of a lifetime added up, and this was the third carload of the weekend. He could use a break.

John was puttering about in the kitchen, getting them some lunch. Rosie was in the sitting room, a litter of picture books scattered around her in a disorganized pile. “Daddy!” she called, piping voice demanding, “Book, please! Daddy - read a book!”

“I’m making lunch, sweetheart,” John called back. “Can you just look at the pictures, and I’ll read to you after we eat?”

Rosie’s face screwed up into a scowl and she drew breath to more loudly demand her father’s presence when she noticed Greg in the doorway. “Papa!” she yelled instead, “you read me a book!”

Greg gasped. “What? What was that, honey?”

The girl looked at him like he was an idiot, an expression she had certainly learned from Uncle Sherlock, and waved the slim volume she held in her hand. “Read me a book, Papa. Please?”

Greg blinked for a moment, then laughed somewhat incredulously as he moved over to the sofa and collected the girl into his lap. He coughed to clear his tight throat, and wiped a finger under one eye. Must have got some dust in it from the move. “Yeah, all right, I’ll read it to you. Which one did you pick?”

A small noise caught his attention and he looked up to see John leaning in the doorway from the kitchen, towel in his hands. John’s face was soft with emotion, and Greg’s eyes brimmed as he read the sweetness written in the weathered lines he now knew so well. “Papa?” he said quietly.

“Welcome home, love.” John answered.

“Book, Papa! Come on!” Rosie insisted.

Greg opened the book and with one last loving look at his partner, began to read. “Dragons,” he intoned, "love tacos..."

 

**Two years later**

Greg burst into the A&E, eyes wild and coat flapping with the speed of his entrance. He flashed his badge at the line waiting for the receptionist as he cut to the front, not caring in the least that he was probably abusing his position in doing so.

“Which room is John Watson in?” he asked shortly.

The nurse at the desk, a slim young man in pale green scrubs, tapped at his keyboard and squinted at the screen.

“Sir, Doctor Watson is still in with the doctor and will be moved up to a room for observation shortly. You can see him once he’s been settled up there.”

“Which room? I need to see him now.” Greg was not about to wait, when John had been hit by a car in pursuit of a suspect. And had caught him, actually, but that was beside the point. John had been _hit by a bloody car._ Well, clipped really, whacked on the ankle and spun about as the car passed, but still, Greg had been terrified when John’s body had disappeared behind the sedan’s bulk - sure that John had gone under the wheels.

“Sir, I’m afraid only family can go in when he’s seeing the physician. You’ll have to wait.”

Greg leaned toward the young man, grinning somewhat ferally. “He’s my husband. Will that do? Which room?” he barked.

“Oh!” he squeaked. “Um, yes, he’s in treatment room four, down that hall on the left.”

Greg was heading down the hall before the flustered nurse could say anything else, counting doors until he found the one with his husband behind it. He pushed the door open, and there was John looking up at the interruption, battered but whole. Something loosened in Greg’s chest at the sight. He strode across the tiny room and wrapped his arms around John carefully, laying his head awkwardly against John’s chest.

John hugged him tightly, and said over Greg’s shoulder “Just a moment, doctor, this is my husband. He was a bit worried, I expect.” A female voice said something indistinct, but Greg only had ears for the heartbeat under his cheek, steady and strong. He snorted.

“Course I was worried, you tosser.” He growled. “You were hit by a bloody car.”

“Grazed at best. Barely clipped me.”

Greg leaned back and glared. John had the grace to look down in the face of Greg’s ire.

“He really is all right, Mister Watson,” the voice said from behind him. “The ankle is bruised but not broken, and nothing else is wrong aside from a little road rash.” Greg turned to look at the doctor skeptically. She was a greying, stout woman, clearly a longtime veteran of the A&E who little could faze.

She held up an elastic bandage. “In fact, I was just comparing notes with Doctor Watson about the best way to wrap his ankle while it heals, and then you can take him home.” She suited action to words, briskly winding the bandage around John’s purpled ankle and under his foot. “Remember, ice that for the first day, and take your anti-inflammatories, both for pain and to keep the swelling down.”

John nodded and listened gravely to her parting instructions, accepting the crutch she handed over, then shook her hand as she departed. He slid down from the exam bench onto his good leg, holding the wrapped one off the floor with the crutch under his armpit. “Well, _Mister Watson_ ,” he smirked, “care to give me a hand out to the car?”

"Wanker," Greg grumbled.

"Prat."

"Git."

"Love you." 

"Love you, John. Just don't scare me like that, yeah?" Greg sighed, and wrapped John in his arms again, taking comfort in the rosemary-sandalwood scent of his spouse. “Married for three weeks, and already I have to use it to get to see you in hospital. What am I going to do with you?”

“Take me home, and I have a few ideas.” John’s waggled eyebrows were wry and wicked.

“Oh, you’re a bad man, _Doctor Lestrade._ ” Greg returned the waggle, with interest.

“But I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours, too - tosser.”

 

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. Thanks to all who have read and commented on this story; anytime a comment comes in it makes my whole day!


End file.
